


Every Exit, An Entrance

by follyofyouth



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, not TLP compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 86,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/follyofyouth/pseuds/follyofyouth
Summary: There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.





	1. One

There are things she knows.

Her name.

Her age.

Her occupation.

There are other things she knows.

In March of 2015, hostile alien forces invaded the Earth, making first contact in Germany.

As the head of the XCOM project, she led a global counteroffensive.

And that’s when things get fuzzy.

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

\--

There are other constants, too: broad, general things like steadfast adherence to the laws of physics as commonly observed, and smaller, more specific ones.

The events before the Invasion are familiar, a story she recognizes innately as her own, and a plausible chain of memories link what was with what is. There are no holes, no lapses in logic that make the dream fall away. 

There is always a Doctor Shen, though the age and the gender varies. One invents a SHIV, the other a GREMLIN; they are both ferociously dedicated.

Bradford –always Bradford or Central, never John– is always there.  Sometimes, there is a sweater; sometimes, there is a scar. They do not talk about June in Berlin.

The base is dark, the globe holographic, and his voice is still in her ear.

She looks for loose threads, one illogical strand to pull and pull and unravel the whole affair. She reasons that there _has_ to be a slip, a glitch, some trick to tell the fun house reflection from the real thing,

She hasn’t found it yet, but she’ll keep looking,

\--

  
She stands in the midst of the carnage and chuckles quietly to herself. Bottles, glasses, clothing: when they partied, they partied. She should have known it would be a wild one when Molchetti had quite literally _popped_ back into existence, landing in a heap on top of the Hologlobe’s pedestal, cutting the air with an electric crackle.

_“Hey, Strike One,” she’d called over the radio. “We found your missing package.”_

She knows it’s not over, not yet. There will be clean up ops. There may still be the stray bogie, or a cell of aliens secreted somewhere far off. _It may have just been the first wave_ , she thinks, and her stomach twists at the thought. _There may be more coming._

Still, as she bends to pick up an empty bottle, she can’t deny that they earned this party. The Temple ship is gone, EXALT lies in ruins, and they are still alive.

There were days she doubted they would make it this far. Newfoundland still weighs heavy on her, the sight of half the squad sliced to ribbons by Chryssalidss. Then there are the countless civilians they couldn’t save: abducted, tortured, and disposed of. And, of course, there are the shadows of the attack, of Mutonss pouring into the base, of their own people turned against them. Her ribs still ache from when she’d been thrown against a wall before a rare lucky shot stopped the creature in its tracks.

Yes, they’d earned a break.

Something stirs in the doorway, and she turns to see her second-in-command pick his way through. His sweater is missing, his tie is undone, and his shirt wrinkled but _damn_ , if it isn’t a lovely sight.

The attack had taken a toll on him, too. Even setting aside the wrist only recently freed from a fiberglass cast, it’s hard to miss the hypervigilance, the longer shifts, the overreliance on caffeine and the rejection of a regular sleep schedule. He’d spent the night between the party and globe, ever watchful.

“Commander.”

“Morning, Central.”

“Doctor Vahlen asked me to inform you that the Sectoid heads are missing from the lab freezer.”

She should not be laughing. It's gross misconduct. With her luck, one is in her bed. Another is almost certainly in Central’s bed.

They both know this.

And yet, laughter is all she can manage, sputtering out even as she tries to hold it back.

And then, she thinks she imagines it, but no, he’s laughing, too.

There they are, in the middle of chaos and mess, on what might be the first morning after the war, and they can still laugh.

She is ready to face whatever is next.

  
\--

She manages to sit until Bradford leaves, then half collapses against the pillows. Her head is buzzing and her stomach rolls. She knows she should get up, make the rounds, meet with the crew and the staff.  There are aliens to murder, an Earth to reclaim.

But she is not ready to face whatever is next.

 _This is wrong_ , some little voice says. _This isn’t how it played out. You woke up wrong._ _Go back to sleep and it will all be better._

She sits again, then slowly, gingerly, stands. The world around her spins and the bile in her empty stomach rises.

She remembers a party, a raucous party. Lan had clambered up onto the pool table and begun reenacting some internet video involving a very elaborate strip routine. Pukkila had egged him into it, and was appreciatively shoving cash into the other man’s boxers.  Hafler had almost fallen off of the couch in an attempt to document the affair. The SHIV had buzzed around, a help and a hazard, butlering drinks and knocking down unsuspecting drunks. She remembers prying off a haphazardly affixed butter knife from its chassis off, shaking her head at her soldiers’ antics.

 _But that’s not right_ , _either,_ she thinks. Lan had died in the first terror attack, blood foaming from his mouth as Thin Men venom destroyed his lungs. Pukkila had been sliced to pieces holding off Chryssalidss in Newfoundland one muggy June night. A Berserker had dragged Hafler’s body off, barely human after having been mashed to a pulp.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and draws in a deep breath. _It was a dream. They are dead and you are here and there is a job to be done_.

Tygan is courteous and efficacious, and quite clearly brilliant. She is, truth be told, not sure how they managed to lure him from the city. There is a polish, a refinement that the rest of the crew lacks. He briefs her on what they know, what they might do with that knowledge. He assures her that all ADVENT tech has been removed, and that, yes, some residual effects _do_ occur, but should dissipate in six to eight weeks.

Shen is bright and fierce, deeply apologetic for the loss she still so clearly feels. Her little robotic companion bobs and weaves, cute in its own way. She fights the urge to ask if Lily’s taught ROV-R to play fetch or if scritches behind the capacitors are a recognized form of affection. She laughs quietly to herself as she scales ladder from one floor to another; the elder Shen would have had a fit at the tattoo.

Her stomach lurches as she steps onto the Bridge. The Hologlobe is there, and the banners, yes, but they’re not quite right. The globe flickers in an out, unable to produce a steady visual. The banners are torn and tattered.  Central is still buzzing at the center of the action, barely even surprised by the sirens that announce her presence, but she can read the ache of the wound in his carriage.

The eyes that stare back at her are young, so young, and do they really know what they’re getting into? What she’s _leading_ them into? They are full of hope, full of expectation.

 _This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong_ , the voice in her head panics.

Her XO has the high points of his briefing ready. They’re hitting a stalled supply train nearby to make a grab for a power converter. There’s already a squad assembled and ready, waiting on her word.

She wants to take him aside and ask if it’s really wise. She’s been in a tank for twenty years and, hey, wasn’t it her decisions that had landed her there in the first place? Wasn’t it her failure that set them on this course? Does he really want to give her another chance?

 _Go back to bed. Go back to bed and you’ll wake up and this will just be some dream_.

But, before she can open her mouth to give voice to any of it, Bradford reaches into his pocket and offers her an earpiece. She slips it on gingerly, still fighting the urge to protest. “Let’s see if I can still do this,” she offers, doing her best to offer up a grin.

“I don’t doubt it.”

\--

Someone is knocking.

“Commander?”

She groans in response, and gingerly lifts her aching head from her desk. Her desk in her office. Her desk in her office in the base. Her calendar, with its vintage fruit crate label art, cheerfully reminds her that it is a week shy of Thanksgiving in the year 2015. She rubs at her temples, trying to shake the fragments of a strange dream from her mind. “Come in.”

Raymond Shen regards her with a sort of fond exasperation as he stands in the doorway. He is alive and whole, a cup of what she presumes to be green tea in his hand.  For a moment, she is surprised, elated in her shock. _Your daughter should see this,_ she thinks, _She misses you_.

“I thought you’d have taken advantage of the quiet to perhaps sleep in a bed,” he says, by way of greeting.

“That … had been my plan.”

 _Of course, he’s alive,_ she thinks. _Why wouldn’t he be? The man came through the attack on HQ with barely a scratch._

He offers her a gentle nod, and a knowing look over his glasses. “Mr. Bradford is looking for you. There’s an incoming transmission from the Council. He started to worry when he couldn’t get you over the comms.”

She sighs. “Telling him to handle it will probably cause an incident, huh?”

“He seemed insistent on your presence.”

She scrubs at her face. “Thanks, Doctor. I’ll let Central know I’ll be right up.”

The man nods, heading out from her office towards the workshop down the hall.

She struggles to clear the last vestiges of the dream from her mind.  _It’s not real. Shen is alive. Vahlen is alive. Shen’s little girl is a child. The aliens have not overrun the Earth. Snap out of it._

“Central, what’s up?” She asks, pressing the comm link in her ear.

“Where _are_ you? We’ve got an incoming transmission from the Council.”

“I was sleeping.”

“Moreno said quarters were empty.”

“On my desk.”

“You have a bunk for that.”

“Yeah, that was Dr. Shen’s thought, too. You know why they want us?”

“If I had to guess, something’s wrong.”

“Don’t even think it.”

“Comms have been more or less quiet since Avenger, ma’am.”

“Let’s just hope it stays that way. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Her relationship with the Council has never been great. For all her experience as the child of diplomats, she has never quite mastered the art of holding her tongue or concealing her anger. In the wake of the Newfoundland incident, she had nearly torn the Spokesman’s head off as he relayed to her the collective’s displeasure with the two UFOs she’d been unable to intercept. Even when there _was_ praise to be had, it still hung heavy with condescension.

Bradford waits for her outside of the situation room door. “ _Really,_ your _desk_?” He asks in lieu of a greeting.

“Better than on a tracking console.”

He grimaces. “You heard about that?”  
  
“Central,” she grins. “ _Everyone_ heard about that.” 

“Lucky me.”

“Don’t worry: the day can still get worse.”

The Spokesman stares down at them, face obscure as ever in the orange-blue light.

“Commander.”

“Mr. Spokesman.” 

“The Council is requesting the remaining data from the XCOM project’s research efforts.”

She wrinkles her brow. “Results of autopsies and interrogations have been available as we got them, as have the specs on Carapace and Titan armors and the improvements we’ve made with satellite security and monitoring.”

“A casual review of your exploits in the field would suggest your advancements went far beyond what has been provided.”

“They’re interested in the weaponry,” Central volunteers.

“Absolutely not,” she says, her eyes darting from the screen, to Bradford, and back again. “Tell them no.”

“Commander, I would remind you that the XCOM project serves at the pleasure of the Council.”

“And I would remind the Council that the charter they themselves drafted gives me final authority over what is and isn’t released. Request denied.” 

“Commander ---“

“Mr. Spokesman, I’ve addressed requests for Interceptors, satellites, corpses, power supplies, medikits, nanovests --- virtually everything the Council’s asked for. I’ve even handed over Arc Throwers, against my better judgment. But I won’t hand over weapons. It’s an arms race waiting to happen, and you can tell the Council I said so.”

The Spokesman is silent. “Very well, Commander, but do not expect this to be taken lightly.” 

The transmission cuts out.

“Jesus,” Central offers.

“I won’t be responsible for plasma weapons being used against civilians. I won’t.”

“That may not be our biggest problem.”

“You’re worried about an Elerium bomb?”

“I’m worried about Vahlen’s interrogation methodology.”

She shudders. She’d watched the process once, driven half by a sense of responsibility and half by a morbid curiosity. She didn’t make a habit of feeling sympathy for creatures that mowed down innocents, but the Sectoid Commander’s screams had been nothing short of agonizing; she can’t imagine inflicting the same on a human.

“POWs, political prisoners, dissidents: there are governments that wouldn’t hesitate to use that on their own people.”

“Including ours.”

Central nods.

“Damnit,” she rakes a hand through her hair. “Alright. Assuming they honor the existing terms of the charter, they have to fund us through the next six months. So, we’re safe til then.”

“And after?”

She swallows hard. “I don’t know.”


	2. Two

There are moments where she almost thinks she’s figured it out. If she stands back and takes stock of the situation, she can almost find where reality jumped the shark. A reclaimed alien ship? An entire world in the thrall of the aliens? Come on.

But is it any more absurd than a global defense force secreted under away under the Kansas cornfields? A reverse engineered UFO?

Invariably, she is forced to concede defeat, accept the double existence, and move on with her day. Or, perhaps more accurately, night.

She tries not to trip on the details.

\--

Really, it should not have come as a surprise. The writing had been on the wall since, well.  Since Royston had come out of the psi lab, honestly.

She’s almost impressed Martin waited as long as he did.

The comms have been clear for two weeks, a feat almost unimaginable even a month ago. The Common Room had almost, _almost,_ recovered from the last fete, the dredges of crumbs and bottle caps all but eradicated from the nooks and crannies of the furniture. The liquor cabinet had been almost, _almost_ completely restocked.

 _Not any more,_ she thinks, downing another glass of champagne.

The initial fracas had started there, carried into Mission Control, and then into the Situation Room, interrupting her meeting as the cheering spread.

“What happened?” She’d called, sticking her head out. “Someone beat Central at Civ?”

“Martin popped the question!” Hegarty had shouted, gesturing wildly to the security feed.

Suddenly, addressing the matter of the Council had seemed a lot less pressing.

She is relieved, stupidly relieved, as if it had been her relationship on the line these eight months. There had been moments, moments where she’d doubted either one was coming home free from a body bag.  She remembers all too well the sight of Royston, body limp and vitals erratic, after an Ethereal had hurled her against a wall, or the way bile had risen in her throat as the Sectoid Commander had turned Martin on his friends and teammates.

But, Hershel was a damn good medic and had stabilized Royston long enough to make it back to HQ. And, when everyone else had been frozen, paralyzed by some pernicious combination of shock and disbelief, Royston had aimed her rifle, hitting the monster squarely between the eyes, and freeing Martin, who ensured the bullet had done its job.

They’d earned this.

“He’s been sitting on that ring since the beginning of November,” Bradford remarks from his spot next to her. They’re close enough to be part of the festivities, but far enough back to chat without fear of being overheard.

“Wait, really?” She asks, surprise registering through the alcohol. “How do you know?”

“Because I signed for it a couple days after Halloween. I thought he’d pop the question after Avenger or wait until Christmas.” 

She blinks, considering this new information. “Don’t you have some pretty strong feelings about fraternization?”

He shrugs. “Theory and practice.”

She fights the urge to ask if that applies to everyone, or just those outside the senior staff.

Bernard pops another bottle of champagne, letting it run over his fingers as he refills plastic flutes, laughing all the while.

“You think they’ll make it?” She asks.

“Yeah, I do.”

\--

Again, there is a Royston. She is the proverbial spitting image of her parents: her father’s hair and her mother’s eyes.

The Commander can’t look at the girl without vague memories of a makeshift engagement party, smuggled champagne flowing freely in the Common Room. They’re fleeting, though, a dream, and are quickly supplanted by the weight of loss.

She’d give almost anything for a dose of Martin’s gentle humor or the older Royston’s calm reassurances.

She notes with some curiosity that no one calls this Royston by her surname. She’d chalk it up to a fear of summoning ghosts, but Central’s never been one for superstition.

Finally, she asks.

The girl offers her a sly grin. “Central didn’t mention, huh? _Maman_ tracked him down before. Well. A few months before. She made him promise that, when something happened, he’d look after me.” She shrugs. “In seven years, I’ve only ever been Sally to him, or anyone else.”

“Seven years?”

She nods. “I was a few months shy of eleven. I’ll be eighteen at the end of April.”

“So, you’re only seventeen. That explains why you’re not on the active duty roster.”

She chuckles darkly. “Not exactly.”

The Commander can feel her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. “Not exactly?”

“I went on an … _unauthorized_ field op, and neutralized an ADVENT collaborator operating in the area.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Once you’re eighteen, then.”

“We’ll see. He didn’t take kindly to the unauthorized bit.”

“Sounds like Central.”

“After I got back, and he sobered up, he grounded me. Bridge or quarters and nowhere else. Kelly managed to talk him into giving me range access.”

“Sobered up? What, you went out on a special occasion?”

Again, she shakes her head, but it’s accompanied by an eye roll this time. “He doesn’t need a reason to drink; he just _does_. If he’s not here, or on the Bridge, he’s probably drinking himself into oblivion somewhere.” The edge on her voice is unusually harsh, almost as if it were some kind of personal betrayal.

The Commander may only be a few days out of the tank, but she can see this isn’t an issue to be pushed. “That’s … new,” she says, attempting to find something neutral to offer.

The information obviously takes Sally by surprise. “It is?”

“To my frame of reference, yeah.”

“He didn’t do this during the Invasion?”

“He didn’t really drink.” _Because I thought he knew better than to follow his father_ , she adds, silently. 

Sally’s shoulders sag. “I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”

_Oh._

\--

“Who said anything about the Skyranger?”

She’s on the Bridge, again, in the dark. The banners are still in tatters, but the Hologlobe’s stabilized, no doubt thanks to whatever magic Shen worked with the recovered and repaired converter. There’s something she can’t place in Central’s voice, almost like a kid who’s finally learned to get a hand in the cookie jar without being caught.

“Shen,” he says, pressing a finger to the commlink. “Status report: are we ready?”

She quirks her head, trying to catch his eye. She swears there’s the faintest grin, pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Short answer? Yes. But, you might all want to hold onto something.”

She’s never been one to question instructions from a Shen, and she has no intention of starting now. She wraps her fingers around the bar in front of her, leaning her weight forward as the ship begins to hum. There’s the sound of metal folding, retracting, and the unmistakable sensation of lift.

Flight. _Actual flight_. On an alien ship. She shakes her head, feeling the way the grin spreads across her face in spite of the headache she’s fought since waking up on Tygan’s table only a few days ago.

She dares a glance over at Bradford, and finds a small, satisfied smile on his lips. 

“Shen,” she says, pressing a finger to her own comm, breathless with what might be joy. “This is incredible. Well done.”

“He’d be proud, Lily,” Central offers.

“I’m just glad it worked,” Shen says, but it’s hard to miss the comfort she takes in Central’s comment.

She’s been on planes before, more than she can count, but this is different. There is no whine, no whir of jets. Instead, it is a kind of steady thrum, something to be felt, rather than heard. The metal of the grab rail vibrates gently and the whole ship feels as if it’s alive under her fingers.

She thinks, briefly, of liminal spaces, the in-between places that have always been breeding grounds for things beyond rational explanation. Truck stops and bus stations, cemeteries and crossroads: they are all areas where this world and the one beyond bleed together. Here, on this ship, the human world has encroached upon the alien; here, XCOM has stolen something from the ashes. It’s no wonder she feels as if she’s surrounded by ghosts. 

_Keep us flying_ , she asks whoever might be listening. _Keep us safe._

\--

She wakes in the morning, and runs her fingers along the cool metal bulkhead of her bunk. It is lifeless, inert under her touch. She isn’t sure why she expected anything else.

In Mission Control, the Hologlobe has been supplanted by satellite views of a crash site in rural China, the wreckage uncommonly charred.

“I see Dr. Shen’s latest upgrades are performing well,” she offers. “Any life signs?”

Central nods. “Hyperwave says it’s a fairly standard supply complement with a few surprises.”

“Ethereal?”

He nods.

“How long ago did we hit’em?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“How fast can we get a team there?”

“A few hours. Skyranger’s ready to launch on your orders after you’ve gathered the team.”

“Strike One!” She calls, pressing a finger to her earpiece. “Let’s go! Rise and shine. Time to take the trash out.”

“ _D_ _éja? Mais, non, maman_.”

“ _Je ne suis pas ta mère, Bernard. Levez-vous. Les extraterrestres rient à vous_.”

“Let’em laugh,” Hershel cuts in. “Molchetti still knocked their ship out of this plane of existence.”

“Let’s just hope she doesn’t have to give us a repeat performance. We’ve got a crashed alien ship. You’re being deployed for mop up.”

“It’s preferable to dying, but spontaneously disappearing from point A and reappearing at point B is not something I want to make a habit of,” Molchetti groans. “I had a headache for a week after.”

“Sure that wasn’t the hangover?” Royston asks. “I seem to remember you having _quite_ the party.”

“She kept her clothes on. It’s more than Lan can say,” Martin offers.

“Lan had a _goal_ ,” Hershel says. “That goal was getting in Pukkila’s pants. He succeeded.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” Central interjects.

“Enough oversharing, Strike One,” she orders, stifling a laugh. “Time to go before you add to the list of people Central can’t look in the eye right now. Grab your gear and report to the hangar.”

A clean up op isn’t without risks. Nothing is, especially with an Ethereal in the mix. She can still feel the now-familiar mix of nerves and nausea as Strike One straps on their armor and boards the Skyranger.

 _They’ve survived worse_ , she tells herself. _An alien base. An alien ship. They can handle mop up_.

She believes it, too. Her people have seen enough, survived enough. After nine months together, they’ve come to understand one another, to be able to compensate for blind spots and weaknesses. They truly are a team, and she has every ounce of confidence in them. 

She still worries.

\--

Every group has growing pains. New teams take time to adjust to one another and find a comfortable working relationship. Old teams have to account for changes in the status quo. Gain a member? Lose a member? Saddled with a new problem? There’s bound to be some adjustments.

That is the only way she can explain Central.

She’s been out almost a week now. She has an op under her belt, an op that went well, an op that netted them a badly needed converter in exchange for a few cuts and bruises. She’s begun to curry favor not only with Tygan and Shen, but with the crew at large. As much as things have changed in the world, human nature remains a constant: if she makes herself available, and more importantly, approachable, her people are every bit as curious about her as she is about them.

So, she plays cards. She has beers. She reviews briefings in the bar or the mess hall. She learns that Kelly was born in Ireland and raised in Brooklyn by parents who are still alive; that she joined when she’d managed to lift the datapad off of a suspected ADVENT mole and used its contents to find her way to HQ; that the baseball cap was her mother’s before her and she wears it with pride. 

She takes tea with Shen out on the flight deck, ROV-R buzzing nearby, teasing out bits of the young woman’s own story alongside the tale of the ship itself, how they’d found it, and brought it back to life. Lily volunteers nothing about her father’s death, and the Commander does not ask.

Tygan is the mystery, the great question of how anyone pried an ADVENT researcher from the comfort of the city centers and drew him to the comparative wilds of the Avenger. She finds a way to chip at that veneer, however, over conversations about needed supplies and possible avenues for research, and finds a deeply remorseful man struggling to stake his place among a suspicious crew, as well as the sole human onboard capable of making a decent cup of coffee.

And then, there is Central, who she knows, or maybe, who she knew. Central, who risked it all to steal her back and who now looks at her as if she’s a ghost, some figment of his imagination made real. Central, who only Kelly, Royston, and Shen can keep track of with any accuracy, who spends his free time drunk or disappeared.

Who looks at her with something approaching hurt in his eyes as Tygan explains the chip’s purpose.

“They were using you against us.”

It’s as much an accusation as an acknowledgement, as if she’d had some say in the matter. She fights back the urge to remind him she didn’t have much choice, that they’d held her down and ---

No.

No, she won’t go there.

Silently, she runs her tongue against the raised scar running the width of her soft palette, listening as Tygan presses on.

“I assume you’ve got a plan on how to initiate this hack?” She asks.

Tygan nods, and a schematic appears on the screen. “The skulljack.”

She nods. “We’ll get it built. Shen,” she says, pressing a finger to her ear piece. “When you’ve got a minute, report to the lab.”

“I’ll be on the Bridge,” Central says, excusing himself. “Tygan. Commander.”

She settles onto a nearby stool, watching as her second in command makes his way out, willing the lump in her throat to die down.

 _It’s just adjustment pains,_ she tells herself.

Somehow, finds she doesn't entirely believe it.


	3. Three

She gauges life by language.

When they met, it was stiff. Formal. He was Lieutenant Commander, and she was Doctor. That particular stage hadn’t lasted long, falling away in light of dinners, good natured ribbing, and a few too many jokes that should have earned them both sharp rebukes.By the time they were traveling, wining and dining in pursuit of funds, it had changed again, a strange mix of private first names and public titles. They’d adapted well enough, the code switch reading as performative to none but the sharpest observer.

He has been Central since the Invasion, but the single name has come to hold two weights.

Language doesn’t lie, but it’s not much use in sorting substance from specter.

\--

The op goes well. Molchetti mind controls the first Berserker they come across, and uses  the creature to ram through the remaining complement, leaving the rest of Strike One to pick off the stragglers. The Ethereal lies crumpled on the ground by the time Martin puts  a shell through its head. There are a few bruises, and Shen’s team will be busy with armor repair for the next several days, but its as close to a flawless op as reality ever allows for.

So, there is absolutely no reason she should have woken up with a pit in her stomach, a sense of doom just around the corner. Yes, there is the matter of the Council and the research, but she hasn’t been removed from her post yet; she ostensibly still has time.

She rolls over and buries her head in the pillow. Logically, she knows it is months of stress, anxiety like nothing she’d ever felt before, slowly surely being processed. In the heat of the Invasion, she hadn’t had the luxury to digest what was happening around her; this is the natural consequence.

But something nags at her just out of reach, a fact she can’t quite recall, a word she knows but can’t form.

Groaning, she sits up, and swings her feet onto the floor. If she’s not going to sleep, she’s not going to waste the time in bed.

There aren’t many places left in the base that feel truly safe. She walks the halls and remembers the wreckage, the chaos, the terror of a few short weeks ago. Her side aches, a reminder that there is healing, both physical and mental, left to be done. 

She’s still not entirely certain how the Council was convinced to include an aquatics facility in the base. They’re not technically qualified to engage in anything other than land-based operations, and while she’s well aware of the benefits of swimming as exercise, she can’t help but see it as an extravagance.

Not that she’s complaining.

She’s never been fond of the water, not beyond hot showers. She hates the beach and the allure of pools never quite took hold.

Still, she can’t deny they’re a good place to think.

She blames Central. Somehow, in crisscrossing the world, making nice and begging for money, he’d convinced her that pools were the appropriate place if you needed a plan.

She’d teased him about it once; of course the Naval intelligence officer preferred water to sensible dry land when he needed to think. He’d been quick to correct her: _Less Navy, more Kansas plains --- though those two are more related than you think._

Whatever the cause, she’d spent more time dangling her feet in from the edge in two-and-a-half years than she had in all the rest of her life combined --- almost always with legal pad in lap and pen in hand.  She doesn’t see a reason to change that now.

The halls are quiet; with the die down in hostilities, they can run a smaller third shift. It’s less desperate, less harried. People are taking advantage of the opportunity to catch up on nine months of lost sleep.

Which is what she would _like_ to be doing, but that’s beside the point.

Pushing open the door, she sees she’s not the only one falling into old habits.

“Commander?” Central asks from the far side of the pool. “It’s four in the morning.”

“I know,” she says, prying her boots off. “I’m not the one in swim trunks, Central.”

“Don’t you have first shift tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah,” she offers, lowering herself to the water’s edge and submerging her feet. “But if I can do twenty hours of consciousness on four hours of sleep, I can do twelve on five.” 

“And, yet, you’re here, not cooped up with your laptop. This after … what was it? ‘How your landing go? Pretty good it doesn’t seem.’”

“Of all the things that have come out of my mouth in the panic of battle, that’s what you comment on.”

“It was memorable,” he says, pushing off towards her.

She shakes her head. “It was appropriate.”

“Just do me a favor and put a stop to it before the troops start calling the SHIV ‘metal husband.’”

She chuckles, watching as he cuts through the water. “I’m more worried about their affinity for taping things to the little guys.”

He comes to rest a few inches from her, leaning his forearms up on the concrete of the deck. She’s briefly relieved to see amusement, as opposed to distrust, in his eyes, but can’t imagine why she’d expected the latter. “They got into the butter knives again?”

“Better. Sectoid heads.”

He rolls his eyes. “I hope you made them disinfect the SHIV.”

“And apologize to Vahlen.”

“That was cruel,” he grins.

“I have to get my fun somewhere.”

He looks up, considering her for a moment. “What’s eating you?’

She sighs, and leans forward, resting her chin on her hands. “The more I think about it, the worse it gets. Plasma weaponry is bad. Interrogation techniques are worse. An Elerium bomb,” she shakes her head. “But it’s the things we didn’t develop that scare me most.”

“MELD.”

She nods. “You saw the gene mods EXALT was pushing.  They couldn’t have done it without MELD. If they could disable the canisters, so could the Council nations. The mods are bad enough, but handing them Shen’s outline on the feasibility of MECs? Humanity doesn’t have a great track record with ensuring their human experimentation is ethical. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much trouble we’re in.”

“And that’s not even factoring in psionics.”

She nods again, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Things were supposed to get easier now, not harder. There’s no way I can let that data out. I’ll purge it myself, if it comes to that.”

“They’ll court-martial you.”

“I know,” she sighs, meeting his gaze. “But I can’t let anyone outside of XCOM get their hands on this.”

And, suddenly, she _does_ know. If the worse comes to pass, if she’s removed from her post, she’ll purge the data and face the court martial. _You tasked me with defending humanity. That’s what I did_.

For a moment, she considers saying _fuck it_ , and jumping into the water alongside him, fully clothed. She’s done it before, in the Airbnb they’d stayed in outside of Rome. It had been hot, it had been late, and the negotiations with Italy had just fallen through. Jumping into the pool solved one of those problems, and doing so fully clothed seemed the least likely to create any awkward situations.

It had the added benefit of her counterpart’s reaction, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. _Most people wear a swimsuit, you know that, right?_

She could do it again. She’d probably feel better.

But this isn’t some little Italian villa; it’s a military base. They are not alone, and with their luck, aliens would come crashing through once again the second she hit the water. She is still the Commander, and he is still the Central Officer, and they do not need rumors floating around.

She’s snapped out of her thoughts by a warm hand on her knee. “We’ll figure it out. It won’t come to that.”

\--

She’s reviewing blueprints for the Proving Grounds with Shen when the ruckus breaks out.

“…I know alcohol fucks with your judgment, but I thought you had _pickled_ yourself well enough to be immune to that particular effect.”

_Sally._

She drifts out toward the ladder, debating whether or not to intervene.

“It’s a reasonable concern.”

 _Central_.

She should _not_ intervene. She should not eavesdrop. She should go back and---

“Reasonable? _Reasonable_? Since when do you --- you’re telling me that you think it is _reasonable_ to think that the Commander, who was kidnapped and _tortured_ at the hands of the aliens, who was shoved in a suit and thrown in a tank, who got the tech that got us _flying, for fuck’s sake_ might have _willingly_ collaborated?”

She screws her eyes shut. She’s not surprised to hear the accusation, but the expectation does little to take the sting away.

“Torture---“

“ _Willingly_ collaborated. _Willingly_. I can’t believe you. Have you _talked_ to her?”

Lily is at her shoulder. “No one thinks that, Commander,” she says, quietly.

Upstairs, Central is silent.

“No, because you’re too busy down here, drinking yourself to death _as usual_. Look, I know you don’t trust _me_ much these days, but do you really think Shen would stand to be working for someone she thought _might_ have collaborated? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she still doesn’t trust Tygan. She’s _fine_ with the Commander, though. Or, hell, you trust Kelly still, don’t you? Don’t you think _she_ might have noticed that something wasn’t right?”

The Commander’s throat tightens.

“Do you think Volk would have helped you if he thought there was a chance of collaboration? And if you’re _concerned_ about collaborators, might I remind you that Tygan _worked_ for ADVENT – _willingly_ worked for the aliens– and you still trust him. And over Lily’s _strong_ objections!”

He tries to say something and is cut off by a torrent of French, mostly profane. There is the _clunk_ of boots on metal, boot on rungs---

Sally gapes at them as her boots hit the ground, the color abruptly draining from her cheeks. “You … heard?”

She nods. “You’re both … pretty loud people. The ship is metal. Things carry.”

The color floods back into the younger Royston’s cheeks, and she runs a hand back through her hair, suddenly fascinated with the scuff marks on her boots. “I … Sorry. He … he doesn’t …”

“He’s a shitty drunk,” Lily offers.

“Vodka leaves him talking out of his ass,” Sally adds. “Everyone knows it.”

“And, he doesn’t do well with surprises.”

“Or, the aliens.”

She offers them both a small smile. “I appreciate it, but we all know, on some level,” she sighs. “He means it.” She manages a shrug that she hopes doesn’t look nearly as defeated as she feels. “If he’s got doubts, then this doesn’t work. Divided we fall, and all that.” 

“The crew’s behind you.”

Sally’s quick to nod. “She’s right. He’ll pull his head out of his ass. He just has to sober up.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not gonna get better until it’s all out on the table.”

The younger Royston goes to say something, than stops herself. “You’re really gonna go up there?”

She nods, then turns her attention to Lily. “Shen, plans look good. We’ll get started as soon as the debris is cleared. In the meantime, stand by for whatever’s coming down the line with establishing comms.”

“You got it, Commander.”

“Sally, I’d appreciate it if you could do what you can to keep people away from the bar." 

“Jane’s usually got a plan.”

She nods, and draws in a deep breath. “Alright,” she exhales. “Time to rip the bandaid off.”

There are many things she hates about the current situation. She hates the alien lines and contours of the ship, how tenuous they make XCOM’s hold on the space feel. She hates the odds, an entire well-armed totalitarian regime hunting them down, dedicated to their eradication. She hates the headache that’s been buzzing behind her eyes since she woke up on Tygan’s table, unceasing and unrelenting, untouched by anything she’s tried. She hates that virtually anyone and everyone she’s ever loved is dead, and she is here, absent both their company and their ghosts.

Of all the things she hates, though, the one weighing heaviest on her as she mounts the ladder, is the state of her relationship with Central.

On the macro scale, she knows that things won’t work if he doesn’t trust her. That in and of itself is a matter of no small concern if they want any shot at retaking the planet. _That_ is what should be her primary motivation.

But it’s the micro scale that eats at her. She wants her friend back, the person whose shoulder she slept on over more transatlantic red eyes than she’ll ever be able to count, who backed her up when the Council questioned her decisions, who went down fighting alongside her when the base was overrun.

She wonders if it wouldn’t have been better if they had just both died then and there: a brief, bright flash of pain and it could have all been over.

It _is_ , she admits, in some part, her fault. She’d pulled them through everything else, but when it really counted, when XCOM had truly needed her, she’d failed. All her theories, all her strategy, all her foresight: it hadn’t been enough.  She bears no small amount of blame for ADVENT, and she knows it.

_But I didn’t collaborate._

He doesn’t look up when she steps behind the bar, doesn’t react when she sets a glass of ice water in front of him.

“I don’t know what to do, or what to say to make you trust me,” she starts. “I don’t even know if I can. I didn’t … I didn’t have any say in what happened. I promise you. I wouldn’t have turned on our people like that.” She sighs. “But I can talk all I want and it’s not gonna change anything. I know that. But, if you figure out what will, I’d appreciate knowing.”

She waits, but there is no acknowledgement of her words. After a few minutes, she dries her hands against her pants. “I’ll be in quarters if you figure it out.”

She’d give anything for the ache in her chest to stop.


	4. Four

In nine months, they have broken protocol once and only once, and even then, she’d argue extraordinary circumstances absolved them.

They had transgressed far more egregiously in the process of building XCOM. There were the little things -- like the drawer in his dresser she’d claimed as her own -- that they could pass off as matters of efficiency, practicality. Then, there are the incidents that are harder to ignore: November in Zurich, August in Rome, and of course, June in Berlin.

By comparison, they have behaved with absolute professionalism.

 _Time and place_ , she tells herself. _Get through the clean up, deal with the Council, and you can deal with it then._

“Commander,” Shen’s voice crackles over the comm, snapping her from her thoughts. “Looks like we’ll be on target to deliver the new Firestorms by the end of the month.”

“Seems like that new art inspired the whole team. Give your daughter our thanks.”

The engineer chuckles. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

“And so will Europe and Africa. Good work, Doctor.”

She breathes a small sigh of relief. Firestorms are bargaining chips --- _good_ bargaining chips. The crafts are too resource-heavy to be built by a single member nation, and without Shen’s expertise, far too difficult.

Even then, Shen’s brilliance hadn’t spared them a rocky first construction. Between salvaging enough parts and learning to negotiate the alien machinery, there had been more mishaps, accidents, and notably, explosions originating in Engineering than anyone had thought possible. They’re all fortunate the fire containment system is well-maintained.

She smiles, and turns her attention back to the tracking terminal in front of her. The skies are quiet, but they’ve begun to detect strange energy readings from cities that had previously been sites of alien incursions. Something is nagging at the back of her mind, something she’s forgotten, something that she hopes this might snap back into focus.

Her fear, her greatest fear, is another ambush, a new landing of alien forces even stronger than the ones they have already seen. She fears being overwhelmed, unable to defend effectively against invaders whose technological prowess still greatly outstrips their own. It is why the psi ops still train, why the lab has nearly free reign to pursue more in-depth analyses of recovered artifacts, and why she intends to have global Firestorm coverage by the end of February. She just has to keep the Council off their tail long enough to make it happen.

The energy reading flashes across her screen, but it’s gone too quickly for their recon network to pinpoint a location beyond the most general level. _Asia_ , she thinks. _Good. Not like Asia’s huge, or anything_.

She sets her datapad on the console and opens the media aggregator. Scanning the headlines, she’s at a loss to find anything out of the ordinary. Even a more detailed search of side stories fails to add anything to the puzzle. _Whatever’s happening, it’s not a problem yet._

“Commander,” Vahlen’s voice sounds in her ear. “We’ve completed the protein analysis of the Carapace armor. We believe we may be able to resynthesize it in a flexible form, but we’ll need more time.”

“Excellent, Doctor. Thanks for the update. Keep working at it.”

“Understood.”

Moira Vahlen has always worried her. It’s not that she doubts the woman’s intelligence or capability, and certainly not her absolute dedication to her work, a passion bordering on reverence. Without her keen mind, they would never have made the kinds of gains that they had in the fight against the aliens. Still, her delight in employing the interrogation device had been unsettling to say the least.

“High intelligence, low wisdom,” Central once said to her when she’d expressed her misgivings.

“More like: high intelligence, wisdom is a dump stat.”

“That’s what they pay you for.”

She thinks back on that conversation more often than she would like to admit.

There are other worries, though. Allowing the troops brief periods of leave to make their way through downtown Manhattan always has its risks, chief among them the risk of exposure. Kansas State provides a veneer of plausible deniability for the range of accents and languages, but one drink too many, and her soldiers are liable to expose them all with one too many tales told just a little too loudly.

There is, of course, the matter of the Council and the research, a matter that eventually cost her her freedom.

And there is the fact that, at the end of the day, she’s forgotten how to relax. She doesn’t know what to do with herself if there’s not some crisis to respond to. She’s afraid she’ll lose her edge, go soft, and when something _does_ happen -- as she’s certain it will -- she won’t be ready.

It’s not that she misses the Invasion, not at all. She is grateful that the world is safe, save for its own machinations. She is grateful to no longer sleep with the sounds of screaming in her ears, the images of soldiers and civilians alike cut down in their tracks by plasma weapons at best, a Berserker’s fists at worst.

But she can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the end, that it isn’t over. This is a respite, a lull, and they’re wildly unprepared for what’s next. It’s just a feeling, of course. There is no evidence to back it, save for the energy readings and even she can admit those might be a harmless anomaly.

That knowledge does nothing to soothe the pit in her stomach every time she wakes. Always with a start. Always with the feeling that something is wrong.

She knows she isn’t the only one the war has taken a toll on. She doesn’t see Hershel without medikits hanging from her belt, or Bernard without a shoulder holster. Martin’s reliance on Aleve to keep the headaches associated with suppressed psionic abilities is getting to be all too common knowledge. Even on the best of days, there’s a haunted look in Royston’s eye, something the Commander doubts will ever truly disappear.

Then there’s Central, whose smile is a little less easy, whose jokes have taken on a darker edge, who still thinks nothing of taking a double shift as insurance.

Yes, they’ve won the battle, no doubt, but they’ve all paid in blood.

And she can’t shake the sense that the real war is still coming.

\--

Two days later, and he still isn’t speaking to her, outside of the most necessary interactions. They keep to separate shifts on the Bridge, and he makes himself scarce when she’s out and about. He goes on a bender that leaves them low on liquor and Kelly breaking up ever escalating Royston-Bradford shouting matches.

She is lucky the crew has not followed his lead. 

If anything, those under her command have embraced her, adopted her as one of their own. She has been called on to mediate disputes about the world before ADVENT, to prove her worth at darts, to entertain them all with stories of their predecessors. She has had company at lunch and dinner, and more quietly proffered cups of coffee than she can count.  She suspects Kelly and Royston of having more than a hand in the efforts, though she can only feel gratitude towards them for their attempts.

She is not alone.

Herlihy gets the debris cleared, making way for Rilke to start on the Proving Grounds facility. There is a minimum of difficulty, save for a few busted knuckles.  Tygan and Shen come through with a means of contacting other Resistance cells, and they are off and running with some scavenged equipment, and a full facility next on the build queue. For being a week out of the tank, things are progressing well enough. 

She is not sure whether she should take this as a sign of imminent danger. She has learned time and time again not to underestimate the aliens. If they could decimate the base, it is well within their power to rip the Avenger from the skies, to turn its crew on each other, to dash them into the ocean somewhere far from land --- or worse, into a city center.

She wakes one night to the roll of thunder and the patter of rain against the hull. She laces her boots and shrugs on a nylon shell, then makes her way out and down. She passes Royston, half asleep on a monitoring console, Central’s coat draped over her shoulders, likely by the man himself.

It is third shift and the ship is quiet. ROV-R chirps at her as she passes through Engineering.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, as if the tiny robot might harbor concerns. “I just need a minute.”

Undeterred, it buzzes alongside her, hesitating only as she crosses to exit onto the ramp.

“I’ll be fine, ROV-R. Go back to Lily.”

After a moment’s thought, it pushes on alongside her.

Gently, she lowers herself onto the deck of the ramp, the chill of the metal seeping through her pants. She pulls her knees towards her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and draws in a deep breath, enjoying the petrichor hanging heavy in the night air.

She tries not to focus on loss. It’s not productive, and it fails to take into account all of the good that still remains. She’s been freed from the aliens’ control, she’s been shown kindness, and she has capable senior staff.  Save for the damnable headache, she’s in good health --- maybe even better than before she was taken. The memory of wires and needles blinks into existence, but she shakes her head, willing it away.

_Not now. We’re not thinking about that now._

She scrubs at her eyes. The new crop of rookies is good – better than good, even. They’re brave and ferocious and dedicated, even if their aim does leave something to be desired. They know the odds, and yet, here they are. She is grateful for each and every one of them, for the sacrifice they are willing to make in the hopes of a better world.

She’s seen what happened to former XCOM personnel, at least insofar as Central’s been able to ascertain, thanks to the archives. Bernard was killed defending civilians outside of Nice six weeks after the base was attacked.  Hershel and Molchetti took their own way out once ADVENT began seeking XCOM’s psionic operatives. Martin was captured, tortured and experimented on; the file on the incident is attached to his service record, but she’s had neither the heart nor the stomach to read it. Royston was the last surviving member of Strike One, working as a Resistance operative until the end. She’d been killed during a retaliation, though the wound had been suspiciously inconsistent with ADVENT’s weaponry. Her file notes she’d been tracking an informant; she wonders if it’s the same one Sally killed.

She doesn’t want the new faces she’s surrounded by to meet the same ends.

Her train of thought is cut short by the sounds of rustling in the bushes not far from the ship and she realizes too late that she’s completely unarmed. ROV-R bobs overhead, his capacitors beginning to crackle in preparation for discharge. She imagines dying here, on the ramp of the Avenger, to some unknown _thing_ in the dark because she was too stupid to remember a pistol; the idea probably shouldn’t make her laugh, but that’s what eeks out amidst the terror. She can’t move, she can’t yell, but she can sit and laugh at her own stupidity.

It is neither a ferocious animal nor a crazed madman that emerges from the bushes. It is not some lost ADVENT bastard, either. Instead, it is Krieger and Thomas, covered in dirt and leaves, one looking self-satisfied and the other underwhelmed. They both turn a bright shade of red upon noticing her, tripping over one another’s words to explain themselves.

She just shakes her head. “I didn’t _see_ anything, and I don’t _know_ anything. Though, I’d get back inside before you trip the perimeter alarm.”

She takes comfort in the fact that some things never change.

Lighting cleaves the sky in two and rain begins to pour slantwise onto the ramp. ROV-R nudges at her shoulder, the message clear: time to go inside. She pushes herself up slowly, reluctant to let the storm pass without an audience, loath to leave but unwilling to traipse through the Bridge soaking with rain water.

Outside of Engineering, she pries off her boots, hoping to avoid making an excess of noise as she passes the bar. She has no idea where her XO is, but she’d prefer not to have a confrontation at this time of night. She makes it back to her quarters without incident, and drapes the shell over her desk chair, then slips off to sleep to the sounds of the storm.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Explicit mention of suicide, no character death

She’s on her way to Mission Control when Royston flags her down with a piece of paper reading “HELP.” With the operative on the phone, she can only manage to mouth “What’s wrong?”

Royston rests the phone on her shoulder, jots down a note on the reverse of the page, and holds it up again: _Parents._

She motions for the paper and pencil, scribbling down her own response: _Not happy w/ news?_

Again, a transference of supplies.

 _Understatement_ , written in thick letters and underlined.

_Why?_

_B/c “can’t marry someone you’ve only known since March.”  
  
_ The Commander grimaces. She can appreciate Royston’s parents’ concern, but they have no idea what their daughter’s relationship has already endured. _Oh brother,_ she writes back.

 _End me. Please_.

_Think Martin might be upset._

_What makes you think his parents took it any better?_

Her eyebrows shoot up and the other woman nods. _There was shouting,_ she writes. _A lot of it._

_??_

_Nine months. Not French. Where live. Etc. You could mercy kill us both._

_And then Central would kill me. Very bloody._

Royston shrugs, then nods.

 _Tell her you have to go; your CO needs you_.

“Mom, mom, mom,” Royston says. “Mom, I love you, but we gotta table this. Mom, yes, I hear you. Mom, I gotta … Mom, duty … Mom, I love --- Mom, I’ll call you back. We’ve got a meeting. Yeah, the Commander _is_ right here. She’s literally standing right here. Tapping her foot. You want me to put her on? No? Okay, good. Love you.” She sets down the phone and shakes her head. “Eloping is starting to look like a viable option,” she says, turning her attention to the Commander. “Skip all the bullshit.”

“You’d really want to cut them out?”

Royston shrugs. “I want to get married to the person I want to get married to where and how I want. We want,” she corrects herself. “If that means cutting them out, then, well. We’ll have a nice reception breakfast or something to make it up to them.”

“You’re resourceful people,” she offers. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Part of me just wants to just do it here.”

“The base? It’s not exactly a scenic venue, Royston.”

“Yeah, but it’s one where we _can’t_ invite anyone. Besides, everyone’s already here.“

“No friends on the outside?”

“I mean, yeah, but … “ She’s quiet for a minute. “These are the people we went through hell with. They’re the ones who watched this all happen, who,” she laughs. “Facilitated when we couldn’t get it together. They’re the ones who matter.”

She considers this for a moment. “Well, think about it. If that’s really what you want, you’ve got my support.”

“Really?”

She shrugs. “I don’t totally endorse giant metal bunker as a wedding venue, but it’s not my wedding. If this is really where you want to have it, we’ll find a way.”

A crazy grin breaks out across Royston’s face. “Can I get back to you?”

“Yeah. It’s an open offer.”

“Thanks, Commander,” the sniper says, standing, “Let’s go see if I can sell Edouard on this.”

“Good luck,” she grins. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Watching the operative head towards quarters, it finally dawns on her that she’ll need to explain this to Central. She laughs, and buries her face in her hands. It’s not the worst problem to have. 

\--

Kelly aims her shotgun at the Sectoid and pulls the trigger, splattering its blood across the ground.

“Good job, Menace. Looks like you’re clear on hostiles for the moment. Finish tagging those crates and let’s get you home,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am!” Gunda calls cheerfully.

On the whole, it’s been a clean op. They’ve netted needed medical and construction supplies as well as additional intel from two datapads lifted from corpses. She doesn’t necessarily bear any confidence in her skills, but she’s comforted by the slow improvement in her men’s aim.

The airlifts in from Firebrand continue through the afternoon, and the unboxing well into the evening. Lily’s workshop slowly fills with new components and datapads to be reformatted, scrubbed clean of ADVENT programming. Tygan seems pleased to have his cabinets restocked, and everyone is grateful for new clothing, the selection of toiletries, and the ammo cache. The Armory looks more like a warehouse than Christmas morning, but the sentiment remains the same.

\--

They eat dinner in the Situation Room, data on the energy spikes from the past week spread out in front of them. Each spike is pinpointed on the screen, along with a time, date, and amplitude. Save for the common link of alien incursions, there is no commonality. No consistent interval. While she has no doubt that there is a pattern, the more she stares, the more random it appears.

“Ugh,” she groans, burying her head in her hands. “What am I missing?”

“Commander,” Central says, voice gentle.

“There has to be something.”

“Commander.”

“We can’t get caught off guard again.”

“Commander.”

“We can’t afford a repeat of that site recon incident.”

“Elizabeth.”

“I hate to use the phrase ‘we got lucky’ when we lost an entire town, a Coast Guard team, and half of our squad –because that feels gauche– but ---“

“Lizzie.”

It’s enough to jar her from her train of thought. ”John?”

“You couldn’t have seen it coming. None of us could have. Chryssalids in a whale carcass on a fishing vessel? Come on. It ran counter to all the data we had.”

“There had to have been something I missed. We knew they could incubate in human hosts; it wasn’t a stretch to think they could take root in other mammals.”

“But we didn’t have evidence for it. You’re a good strategist, but even you’re not omniscient.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’ve had too many close calls. I’d like to get out in front before we have another.”

“If there’s a pattern, you’ll figure it out. And that’s a big if.”

“What if I can’t?” She asks, voice tinged with worry. “What if I can’t put it together and they come barging down our door again?”

“It’s not gonna happen.”

“You seem awfully certain of that.”

“Molchetti knocked the ship out of existence. The clean up ops we’ve run have been a few stray craft, or a cell that’s broken cover. Small stuff.”

“What if they’re just biding their time, trying to lull us into a sense of security?”

“We’ll push them back again. We’ll find a way.”

“I wish I had your faith.”

“Not faith. Evidence. You’ve got a track record now.”

She tips her head against his shoulder. “You might start doubting that track record pretty soon.”

“You'd have to do something extreme."

She lifts her head, considering how to break the news. “I volunteered the base as a wedding venue.”

He looks down at her with the same face he’d made when she’d jumped in the pool outside of Rome, that same mix of amusement and utter bewilderment. “We’re not exactly a chapel. And we can’t allow non-XCOM personnel on the premises.”

“That was a large part of the appeal, I think.”

“Royston and Martin?”

She nods. “Between them, they’ve got four very angry parents.”

“Expected that from Martin’s family, not Royston’s.”

“Royston’s mother went to town on her on the phone this afternoon. Martin apparently got a tongue lashing via video chat. “

Central rolls his eyes. “It’s not like they’re kids.”

“The nine months thing seems to be a sticking point. Along with the where will you live and where will you raise our grandchildren debacles..”

“So, everything.”

 “Just about. Royston joked about having the wedding here as a solution, but the more she talked, the more she seemed to sell herself on the idea. I couldn’t tell her no. We’ll see how well it goes over with Martin.”

“And if he says yes?”

“Guess we’ll have to requisition an awful lot of crepe paper.” She settles her head back against his shoulder. “We’re not gonna make any progress on this tonight, are we?”

He shakes his head. “It’ll look better when you stop chewing on it.”

They stay like that a few minutes, comfortable in the silence. 

“Hey,” he finally says. “When all of this is over, you wanna get dinner sometime?”

She grins. “There’s a laundry list of things I’d like to do, but yeah, dinner sounds like a good start.”

“Good. It’s a date.”

She leans into him. “Looking forward to it.”

\--

If her time in the tank dulled anything, it is her ability to estimate the risk of interpersonal disaster. They had both been in the bar. They’d had buffers, people who’d kept them engaged and occupied and otherwise uninterested in one another. She should have followed them out, should have gone up to her quarters and taken a hot shower and gone to bed.

She should not have sat across the bar from Central, nursing a beer while she reviewed the contents of the day’s grab.

She doesn’t know what she expected. More silence? An attempt at conversation, maybe?

It’s not like her to miss the mark this badly.

“How could you do it, Lizzie? How could you _help_ those things?” He asks, cracking open another bottle.

The accusation cuts deeper than she’s willing to let show. “You really think I said ‘sure, stick some chip in my head, throw me in a suit, and then stick the suit in a tank’? You think I didn’t _try_ fighting?”

“Doesn’t seem like it.” 

“I didn’t have a whole lot of chances, Central. Any time I was awake and had any control over my own body, it was pretty well restrained. No one was dumb enough to leave a scalpel in my reach. If I could have ended it or them, I would have. In a heartbeat. You think, if I knew what was coming, you think I wouldn’t have turned the gun on myself when they went for me?

“Twenty years, you never made a go of it.”

“What, you want me to go slit my wrists in the shower to atone for it?”

“No, that’s what they want. You’re a _traitor_ , but you’re a _useful_ traitor.”

“They used my own memories against me!”

“Twenty years! You know how much blood you have on your hands?”

“You’re not the only one who lost everybody!”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who had to watch as _you_ helped kill them!”

It’s only then that she realizes it’s escalated into shouting. Loud voices. Metal ship. It’s really no surprise that most of the crew is crowded near the entrance to the bar. She can make out Shen and Herlihy, Kelly and Wallace, Royston and Krieger. She can almost see Thomas’s ridiculous braid over Wallace’s head, and she’s almost certain that’s Gunda next to him, with Tygan to his other side.

“Alright,” she says, turning her attention to the gathered crowd. “Everybody in. We’re gonna get this all out on the table. I’d rather it not feed the gossip mill.” She can feel Central’s eyes on her, but she won’t meet his gaze. She needs to keep her composure.

The assembled mass files in, taking positions along the wall and on the floor. It’s more than she realized, nearly the whole crew by her count. She wants nothing more than to disappear into the ether, crawl into bed and ignore the storm that’s broken over the ship.

“Everybody here? Good. Let’s get the record straight. When the XCOM base was overrun, I was taken. I had a Muton with a plasma rifle surprise me with a blow to the head that, _yes_ , probably _should_ have killed me and, _yes_ , I do ask myself how _and why_ it didn’t. I don’t have a coherent set of memories from the time I was captive. What I’ve got is fragmented and messy and not pleasant to think about. “

“That being said, if you have questions about it, I’d rather you asked me. What’s important to know is that, over the course of my time with the aliens, they implanted me with a chip, and passed tactical data through me. I was, quite literally, wetware. You can ask Doctor Tygan for the specifics --- he’ll be able to give you a more coherent explanation.” She pauses, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

“For me, once I was sedated, I had no idea what I was experiencing wasn’t real. They were able to pull from my own memories of the Invasion and first iteration of XCOM. The closest thing I can compare it to is a dream where everything makes sense, where there aren’t weird loopholes.” She swallows.

“The data they passed through me was used in their military ops against Earth and later resistance forces. The chip has since been removed; there is no additional ADVENT hardware in me; and I will put a bullet in my own head before I let them recapture me.” She runs a hand through her hair.

“I welcome any comments, questions, concerns, what have you. This is standing policy You have a question you want answered, I’d rather you come to me. If I can’t answer it, I’ll direct you to whoever can. Anything immediate?”

“How’d they get it out?” Gunda asks.

“Same way it went in: incision in the soft palette and then cranial intrusion and extraction.”

“That sounds awful.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Are you sure everything’s out?” Krieger chimes in. “You said you don’t remember it all.” 

“One of our contacts in the Resistance was able to secure a technical schematic, and ensure its accuracy. It shows only one chip.”

“ADVENT tech gives off a recognizable signal,” Lily adds. “There’s nothing coming from the Commander.”

“Is there anything else that’s pressing?”

Silence.  
  
“Fine. As I’ve said, if you have questions, it’s an open door policy. Dismissed.”

She watches the people under her command stand, and file out, grateful that the looks they offer her are more sympathetic than suspicious. She follows after, desperate to be alone. ROV-R bobs nearby, offering a sad chirp as she joins the procession.

“Shen, Tygan, a minute?” She asks, gesturing them off to the side of the small corridor.

“First,” she begins, quietly. “I’d like to apologize for dragging you both into this mess. This was something Central and I should have kept between ourselves and we didn’t. In doing so, we flagged the entire crew, and the damage control has ballooned appropriately.”

“Second, I’d like to reassure you both that Central and I will … get our shit together, for want of a better term, and learn to behave like professionals. This won’t happen again.”

Over Tygan’s shoulder, she watches Royston turn, as if to go back into the bar, but be stopped by a shake of Kelly’s head. No one needs an encore of shouting.

“It’s not a problem, Commander,” Tygan says. “I anticipated there would be questions when the news broke outside of the senior staff.”

“It’s fine,” Lily says. “Just … if you two are gonna shout each other down, maybe not at 1:30 in the morning?”

She nods. “You have my word.”

She mounts the ladder and climbs, then crosses through the Bridge, and up to her quarters. She wants to scream, or throw something, or down too much liquor, do something stupid and reckless. Idly, the idea of just venturing back to the bar and settling things the old fashioned way, with blood and skin and broken bones, floats through her mind. She chases it away, knowing it won’t help – and that it’s hardly the sort of professional coexistence she’s promised.

Besides, she doesn’t relish the idea of a broken nose.


	6. Six

She bolts up in her bunk, heart racing and dread weighing heavy on her shoulders. For a moment, she’s not sure where or when she is --- the base or the Avenger, 2015 or 2035. Her fingers find her phone, a certain sign of the times, and finds 3:42 AM December 5th, 2015 glaring back at her.

 _It was a dream_ , she tells herself. _It wasn’t real._

The mantra is becoming an entirely too common refrain, something she whispers to herself when she wakes. She’s used to vivid dreams, vibrant ones, dreams that linger long after she’s woken up. But when she thinks back, when she can hold the details up for her waking mind to examine, they all fall apart --- and quickly.

This dream is different. It makes sense. The logic is sound. She recognizes the players, and they behave in believable, predictable ways. No matter how she tries to poke holes, it remains intact. That’s what frightens her.

It’s not real, of course. Dr. Shen is alive; his daughter is a chubby cheeked little girl. The independent nations still reign sovereign over the planet; they have not been supplanted by a fascist puppet government. The base is whole and intact, and not terribly worse for the wear it has suffered, save the memory of loss that infuses its halls; it still stands ready to shelter XCOM’s staff and operatives.

Central does not hate her.

It is this fact she doubts, this one bit that sends her for a loop. Of course Central doesn’t hate her. Why would he?

The word _collaborator_ cuts through her thoughts, the image of massacred civilians and Strike One’s lifeless bodies. She shakes it from her mind. She would never collaborate. She’s not even sure who she would collaborate _with_. The Sectoids in the freezer? The Thin Men who occasionally reveal themselves? It’s ridiculous.

 _Besides_ , she reminds herself. _The man would not have asked you out if he hated you. Let’s be rational. He asked you out_ , on a date. _To hell with fraternization. You’re going on a_ date.

She’s embarrassed at the glee the thought fills her with. She’s an adult woman, not a school girl with a crush. It’s not _news_ that her feelings aren’t exactly unreciprocated. It’s not _news_ that his thoughts on their relationship aren’t wholly professional. But a willingness to do something in spite of it all? In spite of rank? That _is_ news, news that merits a bit of joy.

So, she’d really like to know why there are tears rolling down her cheeks.

 _Stress. It’s stress_ , she reminds herself. _Of course the dream feels real. You’re all wound up._

She runs her hands through her hair, brushing it up into something approximating a bun, and secures it in place with an overstretched elastic.

She’s not on until second shift. She could get up, get back to work. Briefly, she considers trying her luck, seeing if she’s not the only one awake at this hour; his sleep schedule has been as erratic as hers.

She dismisses the idea almost immediately. She is an adult; she is not going to run to her second in command because she had a nightmare. She is thirty-five years old. Self-soothing is a skill that is well within her repertoire.

Or, it was.

After a few minutes, she resigns herself to being awake. She wraps herself in the uniform sweater, a thin veneer of professionalism, and slides out of her bunk. She’s not going to waste time idly staring into space, not when there’s work to be done.

The idea of the uniform is, at this point, laughable. Over the course of nine months, she’d supervised missions in pajamas, in funeral wear, and on one memorable occasion, in her bathrobe, hair thrown up in a towel. She has always been lax with her people’s uniform requirements; they have repaid her in kind.

No one so much as looks up when she breezes through Mission Control in flannel pajama bottoms, an oversized tee shirt, and the sweater. She is reminded of her college days, the complete and total acceptance of whatever strange outfit you happened to stumble into the dining hall in. Her stomach rumbles at the thought, and she resigns herself to a very early breakfast.

She calls up the activation data on the screen again and hopes fresher eyes will give her some kind of insight.

She lists off the tech they’ve dealt with: MELD canisters, flight computers, Outsider shards, Elerium cores, Elerium bombs, weapons of all kinds. None of them give off a signal that matches. She knows she’s forgetting something, something that should stand out.

She searches the archive for any mission footage with fifty miles of the most recent set of coordinates and is rewarded with grainy footage from a terror attack in Buenos Aires.

 _No sleep after this_ , she thinks.

A few minutes in, vague memories of the attack come back to her. It’d been bad --- a few too many Muton Elites and at least one Berserker, in addition to the squishier Thin Men and Sectoids. She’s almost certain it was the mission where Bernard had dealt with a Sectoid attempting to flank him by bashing the creature across the head with his gun, an effective if unconventional means of eliminating the threat.

She chuckles as the attack in question flashes across the screen, partly obscured by the Fog Pod that Hershel had taken cover behind.

Fog Pod.

Opening her datapad, she calls up the research archives, hoping her memory is wrong, that they’d done their due diligence after all.

The Fog Pods. Dropped in civilian heavy areas, and ignored by XCOM in favor of weapons and armor, they’re exactly what she’s forgotten. In the chaos, XCOM had lost track of them, had left Council nations to deal with them. They sit, uncatalogued, in places she can’t name, left alone and forgotten.

“Sonofabitch,” she whispers, frantically tabbing over to their current inventory, hoping to see one in storage after all.

She swallows hard as the realization dawns on her: once again, they’ve been left in the dust, and this time, it’s entirely her fault.

\--

The aftermath is uncomfortable for everyone.

The Bridge, which in her short time aboard, has always been filled with chatter is eerily quiet whenever they’re both present, as if everyone is waiting for another explosion. Shen and Tygan do their best to defuse the tension, putting aside their own disagreements in hope of facilitating cohesion. 

They run an entire mission without his acknowledging her once. She’s lucky Thomas takes only minor injuries from the Trooper’s shot.

There are questions here and there, most of them clarifications. She passes a few towards Tygan, his expertise on the matter outweighing her own, and a few more down to Shen. The crew seem to have come to some kind of consensus, both running interference and trying to keep in everyone’s good graces. She appreciates it; she has never liked being alone.

“Commander,” Wallace starts at dinner one night in the mess. “When you said open door, does that mean anything?”

She cocks her head. “Unless you manage to ask something really weird and uncomfortable, yeah.”

“What was it like? During the Invasion, I mean.”

“Like, daily life or …”

“XCOM.”

She sets her silverware aside, and considers her answer. “I was appointed head of the XCOM project in September 2014, though I’d helped with its development for some time before that. I wasn’t anyone’s first choice, but I was the first person who said ‘yes.’ Technically, my title was Director, but since everyone had expected a military head, the Commander moniker was hard to shake in practice.”

“We ran a decently large operation out under the cornfields in the Midwest. Each field team had its own squad leader, someone who handled the bulk of the field orders on a mission. Central and I oversaw and provided general direction. Sometimes, because of the feeds we had access to, we had to be a little more direct; we could see things the ground team couldn’t.”

“What was it like to have actual funding?” Krieger asks.

She grimaces. “Funding’s always a sore spot for XCOM. Getting money for anything in the old days was a production. The Council —that was our oversight body—like to make us squirm. Back then, it was a power thing. Now, it’s just genuine scarcity.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“Not good, but less demoralizing. If I want something now, I’m free to pursue it as I see fit. My hands aren’t tied by anything other than ADVENT. I know that doesn’t sound like a big difference, but in practice, it’s significant. Easier to place blame when things go wrong.”

Those gathered around share a worried look.

“I’m talking about myself,” she clarifies. “You can all stop making the ‘it wasn’t me’ face. If something goes wrong, it’ll be on my head.” She does her best to offer them a smile, hoping to dispel some of the tension.

“Is it hard? Coming back after…”

“You can’t just ask that, Wallace” Kelly chides.

“No, it’s a fair question,” she insists. “It’s not weird to oversee combat again, if that’s what you mean. The whole time I was in the tank, it was one battle after another. It didn’t end.”

 _It_ is _weird, though_ , she wants to tell them, _having you all around. I keep expecting to find them, to set down somewhere and welcome them back. It’s supposed to be Strike One, not Menace One Five._

_The prospect of doing this without them terrifies me. I’m not sure I can._

She doesn’t, though. It’s not what they need to hear. Instead, she picks up her silverware. “By the way, worse things have been discussed around an XCOM dinner table.”

“What’s worse than _that_?” Kelly asks.

“The most revolting was the mechanics of Thin Man fellatio.”

“…Is that a joke, ma’am?”

“I sincerely wish it was.”

 


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Brief, non-graphic depiction of torture

She jumps when the doors to the Situation Room open, startled from her nap by a concerned looking Central Officer. “Did you _sleep_ here?”

“What time is it?”

“0800.”

“Just for the last hour and a half, then. I think I know what’s causing the energy spikes.”

“How long have you been _awake_?”

“It’s the Fog Pods.”

“What?”

“It’s the Fog Pods. I’m almost sure of it. It’s the only answer that makes sense.”

He lowers himself into a chair. “I’m listening.”

“On a hunch, I looked for missions we’d run in a fifty mile radius of the last recorded spike. What I pulled up was this,” she says, sending the footage to the large screen.

“The attack in Buenos Aires. Wasn’t that the one where Bernard---”

“Yup. And, rewatching the footage,” she says, calling up the incident in question. “This popped out at me.”

She replays the moment. “See the Fog Pod Hershel’s behind?”

“It’s one case, Commander.”

She shakes her head. “It’s bigger than that. I started pulling footage from other areas where we’ve seen spikes: Beijing, Tokyo, Johannesburg, Munich, Berlin, DC. The Fog Pods show up in all of the footage, so we’ve got a confirmed presence. We’ve ruled everything else out. We did our homework; we can rule out almost every other alien tech we’ve encountered. The Fog Pods are the one thing we forgot. That _I_ forgot.”

“You didn’t forget. Other things had to take priority.”

“I didn’t even instruct our people to keep track of them!”

“If they’re what’s giving off these energy readings, they’ve kept track of themselves.”

“How did I miss this?”

“Weapons. Armor. Medikits. Live captures. Flight computers. You weren’t exactly leaving the research team idle.”

“But this!” She buries her head in her hands. “I have a _Doctorate_ in _Biodefense_! This is inexcusable!”

“And we’ve been monitoring environmental data for cities where we’ve had active incursions. It’s been clean. If you’re right, we’ve still got time.”

“But we don’t have a Pod.”

“Not even in storage?”

She shakes her head. “I _really_ fucked us up.” She groans. “Time to go beg for the Council’s mercy.”

“Not … like that,” he says, eying her over. “Go get some sleep and come back with a uniform.”

“We don’t ---“

“It’s not going to be a pleasant call. It’s going only going to be worse if you go into it sleep-deprived.”

Her shoulders droop. “What if I’ve just set us back? What if … what if this is something coming? Some delayed onset weapon?”

“They’re not gonna bring that ship back into existence.”

“But what if they’re a bio agent? Those things take _years_ to counter, and that’s assuming we even can.”

“They haven’t activated.”

“But they _could_. Our last, best hope is to stop them before they do, and we don’t even have one to pull apart. That’s not even considering the potential biohazard we take on by bringing it here.”

“I don’t debate you on any of that. But your last call with the Council was … not the most productive. This is going to be contentious at best, hostile at worst. You’re not ready for that on … what, four hours of sleep?”

“Four and a half.”

“Point stands. You’ve got a lead now, which is more than you had last night. Get some rest. I’ll make the call and get things set.”

“I’m not winning this argument, am I?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Alright then,” she says, standing. “I surrender.”

“Commander?”

“Yeah?” She asks, halfway through pulling the sweater over her head.

“Isn’t that my shirt?”

“It _was_.”

He chuckles. “Looks better on you anyway.”

She winks at him. “See you in a few hours.”

“Maybe in your own uniform?”

“Might raise questions if I showed up in yours. Would have to skip the pants.”

She takes no small delight in the flush blooming under his collar. 

\--

It's a quiet few days. When she sleeps, she dreams of happier times.

Well, happier possibilities, if she’s being accurate.

They’re not bad dreams, but they leave an ache in her chest when every time she wakes up.  In dreams, the aliens lost. In dreams, she can call her mom. In dreams, she can see the people who had become some of her dearest friends.

In dreams, Central is talking to her.

She tries to focus on the good. She’s really gotten a feel for the dynamics at play among the crew. She knows that Kelly is the one who has Central’s ear, and it’s Wallace and Royston who have Kelly’s. Thomas’s mouth likes to write cheques his performances can’t cash, whether it’s on the range or in the underbrush, but it never seems to dull his enthusiasm. Krieger and Gunda are already a matched set, an optimist and a pessimist united by a desire to take a little blood in the name of all that’s been spilled. Moon and Zaytsev are the jokesters, always the guilty ones when a prank’s afoot. Shen has an almost masterful control over her engineers, while Tygan struggles to keep his scientists in line. Dysfunctional as it is, they have formed their own little ersatz family, and adopted her right along into it.

Then there are the more nuanced factors, the things she can’t quite put her finger on. Royston and Central are at each other’s throats more often than not, but that’s not the whole picture. It doesn’t explain how he makes sure she eats dinner no matter what’s transpired earlier in the day, or the swing she takes at Thomas after he’s thrown around one too many jokes about liver failure. It certainly doesn’t explain the ice he’d brought her, reprimand free, after he’d needed to break up the ensuing scuffle or the sight she’d caught of them in the bar, his head in his arms, and Sally next to him, beer bottle in hand, with a look of exhaustion.

People have always been, and will always be, complex. Alien invasions don’t change human nature.

“Commander,” Tygan calls over the comm. “When you have a moment, I think you’ll want to see this.”

“On my way.”

During their last op, they’d managed to pull a large cache of data off of the ADVENT network. Tygan’s team had been busy perfecting the program to decode it; evidently, they’d made significant headway.

“Commander,” he says, as she descends into the lab.

“Doctor. What have you got for me?”

He gives her a brief rundown of their findings, news on supply and troop movements to some off the beaten path facility. They’re sure it’s important, but they can’t begin to fathom its purpose; perhaps they should devote resources towards learning more about it?

She nods. “I’ll do what I can.”  
  
“There’s also the … other matter of what we found.”

Tygan presses a datapad into her hands. “There are files pertaining to your … captivity with ADVENT. Once the team realized what they were … There was a concern of privacy. They’ve been localized on the datapad as a means of keeping them off the XCOM network, given their … personal nature.”

She bites her lip. “I appreciate the discretion, Doctor. Thanks.”

“Our work on their encryption has also led us to some potential new ideas on how to handle long distance communication. With your permission, we’d like to pursue it.”

“Of course,” she nods. “My thanks to your team.”

The walk back to her quarters feels like a dream. She doesn’t like to isolate herself, but she’s not prepared to view whatever contents they’ve recovered with an audience.  The men need to believe she’s here and whole, and that means not letting them see when goes to pieces --- as she suspects she’s about to.

She remembers more of her captivity than she likes to think about. In the week and a half she’s been out of the tank, it’s come back to her more vibrantly than she wants to admit. She’s learned to ignore it, to tamp down the flashes, the little things. The crew keeps her busy and she’s thankful to them for it.

When she’d first come to in the holding cell, stripped to her underwear and a hospital gown, it was terror. Overwhelming terror. No gun, no knife, and the only visible exit without any kind of opening mechanism.

XCOM was gone. She’d known it in her bones. Her only hope was that someone had managed to escape, to warn the Council, and that the rest had died without suffering. She’d hoped Royston and Martin gone together, and that Molchetti and Hershel hadn’t seen one another’s fate.

And Central. _John_. She’d teared up thinking about him. She wasn’t religious, but she’d offered prayers up to whatever might be out there that it had been quick, and that it hadn’t been one of their own who’d done him in. 

She should have told him. She should have said something. Should have should have should have.

Too late.

From there, it had only gotten worse.

She remembers the sick horror that had filled her at the site of cells identical to hers, opaque black, but still clearly occupied. _Not him, not him, not him_ , she’d prayed. _Not like this not here not him_.

The first file on the datapad is a prisoner profile. It lists her name, her date of birth, her identifying characteristics, degree of psionic potential, everything they’d need at a glance. Scanning through, there’s notes about her resistance to psionic interrogation, a talent for resisting mind control attempts.

 _Extreme will, potentially useful for our purposes_ , the document reads. _Will need to rely on more direct interrogation methods._

She’s not sure if she wants to laugh or vomit.

_May be useful in locating additional assets._

Although, drinking herself numb is starting to sound like a viable solution.

 _You don’t have to do this_ , she tells herself. _You don’t have to go through this at all. Put the datapad down You don’t have to relive this._

Except she does. 

The next file is a video. It’s strange to see herself on the table, the device she’d come to hate so ferociously already prepped for intrusion.

 _“There’s no need to make this hard on yourself, Commander,” the Ethereal_ _purrs._

“ _Go to hell,” she spits, voice already raw from screaming,_

_“We’re willing to accommodate your ... needs.”  
_

_“Leave him alone.”_

_“It would make your integration much more efficient. Your relationship is well-established.”_

_“I’d just as soon do us both in.”  
  
“Very well, if you’re going to be _ this _difficult.”_

_A leering Thin Man flips a switch and she screams as the device punctures cranial cavity._

She sets the datapad down, and presses a finger against the gnarled scar at the base of her skull. Brute force was too delicate a term to describe the process. Yes, she could fight psionic interrogation, but direct stimulation of the neural pathways was a considerably different matter.

The final file is a list of high value assets. _Devorah Hershel. Isabella Molchetti. Edouard Martin. John Bradford_.

She needs a drink, and a strong one at that, but the bar’s hardly an option. With her luck, Central will be there and they’ll find themselves embroiled in another incident, promises of professionalism be damned.

_Wait a second._

Her eyes dart from the datapad to the door and back again. _You’re an idiot_ , she thinks. _Central is the person who needs to see this the most. This might be the only thing that gets him to talk to you._

She takes a deep breath, and tries to settle the nausea in her stomach. She’ll need to execute this carefully.

“Sally,” she says, pressing her finger to her comm. “Can I see you in my quarters when you have a moment?”

“On my way!”

The knock on the door comes faster than she was expecting, but she ushers the younger Royston in quickly.

“I have an unpleasant favor to ask you.”

“Alright.”

She hands her the datapad. “I need you to take this to Central, and I need you to make sure he goes through it.”

Sally cocks her head. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s not locked,” she says, offering her a pointed look.

She furrows her brow, then nods as the implication dawns on her.

“You got it, ma’am. I’ll make it happen.”

She knows it’s a dirty thing to do. It’s vicious and manipulative --- especially with Sally as the messenger. She tells herself that she has no other option, but that’s not true. She could go herself. She could ask Tygan to provide him with a copy. She could send any other member of the crew.

She wants to get through to him, to make him understand. She can’t yell or punch, but there are other ways through his armor.

She can hurt, too.

 


	8. Eight

To say the call with the Council does not go well is an understatement.

No matter how she approaches the matter, there is no escaping her rather glaring oversight. That oversight, combined with her continued refusal to hand over the weapons research, leads to a very pointed questioning of her fitness to continue as the project’s Commander.

With two hours until her shift starts, she feels justified playing darts in her office.

Someone knocks on the door as she’s yanking them out of the board for another go. “Come in!” She calls.

“I’m taking it your meeting didn’t go well?” Central asks.

“Let’s see,” she says, chucking a dart at the board. “No funding, no Fog Pod, and oh, maybe no more commanding.”

“What?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, chucking another dart. “You heard me."

“Why?”

“Because,” a third dart. “And I quote ‘you were recruited for your strategic aptitude and expertise in biological defense procedures.” A fourth. “If you no longer meet those requirements and you are unwilling to honor other sections of the charter as signed, then,” she hurls another dart, missing the board entirely and wedging in the cork tile underneath. “It may be time to reconsider your command.”

“They’d have to have the backing of the other senior staff. They’ll never get it.”

“Not you or Shen,” she says, yanking the darts from the board again. “But Vahlen?”

“You’ve put your foot down _once_. I still think you made the right call on that, by the way.”

“Yeah, but if _they_ don’t?” She shakes her head. “Anyway, it can’t be our focus now. We’ve got a bigger problem. Who are we still on good terms with?”

“Country-wise?”

She nods.

“Peru, Chile, Italy, Ireland, Kenya, Morocco. Belgium, Switzerland. Probably more, but that’s who comes to mind.”

“And every one of those countries, except for Belgium, saw alien activity, yeah?”

“I believe so.”

“Good,” she says, stepping back and readying another throw. “My next question is strictly off the record.”

“Understood.”

“How fucked are we if we go behind the Council’s back?”

Central considers this for a moment, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door. “There’s nothing that strictly prohibits it. But they’ve probably got a close eye on _you_.”

“So, we’re out of luck.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She pauses mid-throw. “Are you … are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“I’m not on the Council’s radar.”

“If they catch you, that’s a dishonorable discharge at best, a court martial at worst.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Central---“  
  
“Commander, you do your job. I’ll do mine.”

“It’s an _awful_ risk.”

“Think I’ve earned getting to say I’ve survived worse. Besides,” he shrugs. “What’s the point of an intel officer who can’t handle a covert op?”

She offers him a small, worried smile. “You’re sure?”

He nods. “Give me a few days. You’ll have your Fog Pod.”

“What do we tell Shen and Vahlen?”

He laughs. “Come on. When has Vahlen ever _asked_ where something came from?”

“Fair. But what about the Council? What do we tell them?”

“Who says they have to find out?”

\--

A storm rolls in just after dinner, low, deep rumbling and the promise of a good soak. The air is hot and muggy, settling heavy over their corner of the universe, making her head throb a little worse than usual. She’s settled herself on the Avenger’s ramp, mug of tea in hand, to watch the show.

“Commander?” A voice calls from behind her. “Am I intruding?”

“Even if you were, pretty sure the errand I sent you on today would earn you a pass, Royston.”  
  
“I guess asking if you’re okay is pretty dumb, but ---“ she shrugs. “It feels weird not to.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s all long enough ago --- sorry to dump that on you, by the way. Wasn’t fair. How’d he take it?”

“He took it … okay is probably not the right word, but he didn’t throw anything,” she offers, sitting down. “And last I heard from Jane, he’s not passed out on the bar.”

“How did Kelly get babysitting duty?”

Royston brushes her hair behind her shoulder. “Well, originally, it was me and Lily and Lily’s dad who made up the entirety of the list of people who could reason with Central. Dr. Shen’s gone and I’m solidly not on that list anymore, so that left it to Lily, which is sort of a tall order. When Jane showed up, she was fresh from fighting her way halfway across the US. She was smart and capable and _completely external_ to the history everyone else had with each other. Throw in the fact that she’s a good shot and was willing to _trust him_ , and well. The list of people who can reason with him when he’s drunk is now Kelly and Shen, and Kelly’s farther from burnout.”

In the distance, thunder rumbles, low and insistent.

“Hell of a job,” the Commander offers.

“Don’t envy her.”

Finally, she notices the younger Royston’s legwear. “I’m complaining here, but what’s with the fishnets?”

Her face lights up. “Snatched them out of a house somewhere in … Missouri, I think? They drive Central nuts, but he let Thomas into the field in a pair of leather booty shorts, so he can’t complain about these.”

“Weren’t they … a little less colorful earlier? A little less … neon?”

The girl grins. “Yeah, but these are my off duty ones.”

She laughs, burying her face in her hands. “Sartorial passive aggression. Clever.”

“If I ever wanna see the field, it’s not like I can _openly_ flout his authority again. Besides, he’s had, like, four years to build up a tolerance to them.”

“You must’ve given him a run for his money, growing up.”

She nods. “Yeah, I could be a pain in the ass. “ Slowly, the smile fades from her face. “Uh, is that open door policy---“

“Out with it.”

“What were you two like before the Invasion? Were you, y’know, happy?”

 “What makes you think there was ever an ‘us two’?”

Royston bites down on her tongue, trapping it between her teeth. “If I tell you, are you gonna kick me off the ship?”

“That’s a hell of a lede.”

“Are you?”

“No, but I’d like to know where this is going.”

Thunder booms in the distance.

Sally groans. “He always said I’d overplay my hand one of these days.” She shakes her head. “Okay, so _Papa_ had the gift, yeah? _Maman_ developed it when she was pregnant with me. So, surprise, surprise, I’ve got it too. But, after what happened to him, and with what happened to other people who had it, well, _Maman_ was adamant about my hiding it -- It’s why she wanted to make sure I wasn’t on my own when … you know.--  so I don’t have a ton of control and, well, you would be _amazed_ how much people just … _broadcast_.”

“Yeah, that’s not it. I mean, it’s not just that. I’ve, um. I’ve got memories that … aren’t mine? I mean, they’re my parents’ so it’s not totally foreign, but … Yeah. Please don’t kick me off the ship. It’s the only home I’ve got. And I’d worry about Central.”

“You may be grounded, but you’re still an XCOM operative. Who else knows about your situation?”

“Just Central and Lily. And even then, I think it’s really only Central who knows the full scope.He kind of had to field a lot of questions about ‘whose memory is this’ after _Maman_. Well…”

She considers this for a moment. “I’m not kicking you off the ship, Sally. This is home. And, about your question,” she bites her lip. “It’s hard to give you a straight answer. There were always … complications. But yeah, I’d say we were happy.”

Outside, rain begins to fall.

Sally nods. “He’s gonna come around. He’s still gotta pout for a while because he’s _himself_ , but ---“

“I don’t _pout_ , Sally.”

“It’s always nice to announce yourself,” she grumbles, twisting to face him. “How long have you been lurking there?”

“Long enough. Scoot,” he says, gesturing back into the ship,

“Good luck,” she says, standing. “Throw’im off the ship if he’s an ass again.”

“I can still hear you, you know.”

“Good,” she says, stopping to pat his arm. “You’re meant to.”

“In. And take the damn fishnets off!” He calls after her.

“Soon as you tell Thomas he can’t wear leather booty shorts into the field. It’s a combat zone, not a sex dungeon!”

Central rolls his eyes and seems to gather his courage.  “Can I sit?”

She nods. “Sal’s cute.”

“She’s a pain the ass, but she’s a good kid. Gonna owe her mother a thank you one of these days.”

“Not in the near future, yeah? Don’t think anyone else could keep us running.”

Lighting splits the sky and rain becomes a downpour.

“You’ve always been a quick study. You’d adapt.”

She shakes her head.

“I went through the files,” he says after a few minutes. “Pretty sure Sally did, too.”

“I … sort of told her to. I thought totally blindsiding you would be … in poor taste.”

They sit in silence again.

“I don’t know how to have this conversation.”

“We’re not yelling, so that’s a start. You feel better after what you saw?”

“Better isn’t the word I’d use.”

“You get your proof?”

“I shouldn’t have needed it in the first place.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yeah, I got my _proof_.” He swallows hard. “How long did they…?”  
  
“Two weeks is my guess, but I wouldn’t trust it. I’ve got things that are missing, things that are out of order. It’s all pretty fragmented. More flashbulb than continuous. Don’t know if I’m grateful for that or not.”

“You’d rather remember it all?”  
  
“There might be good intel. But, no. I’d really rather not.”

They’re quiet again.

“What was it like?”  
  
“In the tank?”

He nods.  
  
“It felt real. It _all_ felt real. You were there. And Shen and Vahlen. Royston, Martin, Hershel, Bernard, Molchetti, everybody. I look at it now and …” She rolls her eyes. “It’s like some fucked up _Wizard of Oz_. Except swap out the ruby slippers for that goddamn suit and the tornado for a brain implant.”

“I’m afraid Toto might have to be a Chryssalid.”

“No, thanks,” she chuckles.

Thunder rolls in from the distance.

“I’m glad you didn’t … you know. Find a way.”

“Now you sound like Sally.”

“Comment was over the line.”

“That’s sometimes the nature of honesty.”

He shakes his head. “Spent twenty years trying to find you. Would have been a little put off if I’d found out you’d … I would have missed you.” A moment passes. “I _did_ miss you.” He stares out at the storm. “I’d also like to retract that statement about you having blood on your hands.”

“That’s arguable,” she sighs. “Base fell on my watch.”

“Hard to command mind-controlled personnel.”

“I should have seen something like that coming.”

“The whole point of a surprise attack, Commander, is that it’s a surprise. That’s not on your head.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Doesn’t feel like it though.”

“You’re not responsible for it. Or the things that happened after.”

“If I’d been able to head it off in the first place, we might have a lot more of our people with us.”  
  
“Don’t go down that path.”

“It’s true, though. I’m sure you’ve thought it.”

“I was there. I saw what happened.”

They’re both quiet again.

“You’ve run damn good ops,” he says after a few minutes.

“You put together a good team.” She chuckles. “Where did you pull Thomas from, though?” 

He grins, sheepish. “Some bar in a haven outside of Montreal. He got tossed out on his ass --- literally.”

“Somehow, that’s fitting.

“Commander,” he asks, turning to look at her for the first time since he sat down. “How do we … how do I unfuck this?”

She meets his gaze, considering him for a minute “Well, you’re talking to me. Wasn’t sure we’d even get that far.”

“Yeah, neither was I.”

“I’m guessing I probably have to re-earn your trust. That’s fine. Nothing gets fixed over night; we both know that. Just don’t cut me out like that again, alright?”

“Deal.”

“Good.”


	9. Nine

She forgets, sometimes, that Central is first and foremost an intelligence officer. She thinks of him as many things: logistics wizard, second in command, rookie wrangler, and occasional diplomat. There are other roles, too, other titles, but they don’t pertain to professional affairs, so she tries to exclude them from any kind of list --- even a mental one.

In the nearly four years she has worked with him, she has almost always seen him in the role of the military attaché, the voice of _proportional response_ , and _reasoned intervention_. If she is theory, he is practice --- or, that was how they played at it over the course of their negotiations with potential funding nations.

She trusts John. Time and time again, he has come through for her: as support, as a voice of reason, as the unholy wrath of a man armed only with a six shooter who still managed to fell the Muton that had taken too keen an interest in her as chaos engulfed the base. Of all the things she has ever doubted, his loyalty is not one of them.

It does not negate the shock when he comes to her a few days later with Pods ready to move on her order from Ireland, Lebanon, and Ecuador.

“How?” She asks, staring at him from across her tiny office.

“There are always backchannels, but it’s better I don’t say anything beyond that. Shen says any facility to house them will need separate filtration and HVAC. He’s already got Engineering working on it.”

“And Vahlen?”

“Seems happy enough for the new specimens.”

“She’s not upset about her research being interrupted?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle. “I owe you.”

“I’m just doing my job, Commander.”

“You’re sticking your neck out.” 

“Not pursuing it would be reckless. We don’t know what those things are for.”

She rubs at her eyes, feeling the last few days of lost sleep. “I’ve been following up on civilians who had been exposed to whatever it was they emitted. They all seem _fine,_ as far as I can tell from the records we have on hand. No signs of illness, no shift in behavior. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find, but ---“

“But you’re not gonna feel better until you look.” 

“Exactly. I already feel like I’ve failed us once. I swear, I don’t know where my head was, but I’m not going to let it happen again. We’d all be up a creek without you.”

“You’d have found a way.”

“Come on. You were always the better diplomat.”

“And you’ve got me beat for tactics and strategy. We can contemplate the great ironies of life later.”

“After dinner?"

“After you get some sleep. You look like hell.”

“Central Officer Bradford, always the charmer,” she jokes.

“I mean it.  If medical got blood out of you now, they’d probably find it was more caffeine than anything else.”

“Hey!” She feigns offense. “That’s discounting all the cortisol I’m sure I’ve got coursing through my veins.”

She’s not sure how his expression manages to convey both a profound sense of worry and his distinct lack of amusement, but he does it. She’d like to congratulate him on the feat, but she somehow doubts he’d appreciate it. “Go to bed.”

“You coming too?”

Well, _that_ certainly wasn’t supposed to come out of her mouth.

He cocks his head to the side. “Find me a bed that’s not a bunk, and I just might. But you’ll just have to make do for now, unless you’ve got a Queen sized mattress around here somewhere.”

She gapes for a moment, fishing for a response. “No, but I know what I’m requisitioning once we have a surplus.”

“Surplus? You are _really_ sleep deprived.”

“Maybe you do have a point,” she yawns.

“It’s been known to happen. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

“Promise?”  
  
“I dragged you out of the shower to command a counterattack four months ago. You really think I wouldn’t drag you out of bed?”

“Fair point.”

\--

And so, they begin again.

It’s not like the early days. They are strangers again, yes, but strangers with a shared history, a past that ties them to each other. They have common ground, common trauma, a common knack for making the men under their command just a little uncomfortable.

It’s little things, coffee in the morning, a beer at night. They are both grasping for something, some front to unite behind. It’s not enough, not really, but at least he’s stopped looking at her with accusations in his eyes, and life on the Bridge has begun to lose some of its tension.

“Commander, Central, we’ve got a secure transmission coming through,” Gunda announces from her console late one afternoon. “Patching it through to the Commander’s quarters.”

“Come on,” Bradford says, motioning her up the stairs. “Someone else you gotta meet.”

She quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest.

The terminal screen in her room flashes with the simplified crest, and she reaches for the keyboard, inputting her password. The screen flickers, distorted and pixelated, then is supplanted by a familiar figure.

“Hello, Commander.”

Her mouth falls open.   
  
“Mr. Spokesman?” She manages.

He is unchanged, as far as she can tell, as much a fragment of a time long ago as she is. The lights, the voice, everything: it’s just as she remembers.

But it can’t be. It shouldn’t be.

“The council you once knew is no more. Its membership have all sworn loyalty to the ADVENT administration --- with one exception. It is good to see you again.”

She fights the urge to flick the lights or check her hands or elbow Central, something, anything to check that she is not dreaming. This is surreal, or maybe unreal. This is the shadow and substance come to meet, and she’s lost her footing. She settles heavily into her desk chair, suddenly lightheaded. 

The Spokesman presses on, explaining his efforts to work against the administration from within, as security footage of her own captivity plays out on the screen.

She runs through the events that have led her to this moment. It all makes sense. Everything adds up. But something, _something_ is off and she can feel it.

It’s enough to make her nauseous, enough to make her dizzy.

 _Deep breaths,_ she tells herself. _You can’t lose it now._

Pictures of missing civilians appear on the screen, and the Spokesman continues on, a grainy picture of an ADVENT facility replacing them, some kind of mysterious black site that they’re meant to investigate.

“Save our world. The clock is ticking. Good luck, Commander.”

Before she can respond, he is gone.

“Did that just happen?” She asks, turning to face her second in command.

“You two having a civil conversation? I’m surprised, too.”

It takes a moment for the comment to register, but she laughs when it finally does. It’s a joke; he’s teasing her.  There’s something like an attempt at fondness in his voice, though she refuses to get her hopes up quite yet. “I was _always_ civil.”

“Only because if you’d actually lobbed a boot through the screen, it would have taken a bigger dent out of the budget.”

No, that _is_ fondness. She feels a little better, more grounded, maybe. This is real. It’s happening. Someone else has verified it, even if only indirectly. She is not hallucinating, or half between dreamland and the real world. They have a problem to solve, and she’ll need to address it. She knows this framework. She _recognizes_ this framework. She can do something.

“Sounds like it’s a good thing Tygan and company were able to crib together some inspiration on comms. We’re gonna need it.”

“It’s always something, Commander. That won’t ever change.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about whatever it is we’re going into.”

“You and me both.”

\--

She envies her men sometimes. She’s not proud, and she’d be hard pressed to admit it to anyone, but she does. Hershel and Molchetti cuddle together under a blanket during an impromptu movie night. Martin naps on Royston’s lap during the nightly news. Lan and Pukkila dance with each other in the kitchen while Bernard yells at them both about hot pots and _we have a whole base, but no, you two, you choose here for your waltz._

Had she not been drafted into the re-development of the XCOM project, she would never have met John. Of that much, she is certain. After all, there would have been no reason, unless they had crossed paths at a conference, and even then, she’s not sure either of them would have looked twice at the other. It was the project that threw them into one another’s lives.

She wonders if things would have been different had he taken the role of Commanding Officer, instead of Central. It’s no secret between them that he was offered that position first. Would she have remained a civilian? Surely, she wouldn’t have been involved in the day-to-day operations once the activation order was given, at least not to the extent she presently is. Would it have opened other doors, other possibilities? 

She wonders, too, what would have happened had Colonel Curran not gotten sick, not been forced to step down as project head. What would have happened if they had remained colleagues, equals? What if they had stepped back, looked at the bigger picture --- would they have been able to see the possibility of a life together? And would that possibility have been enough?

They are both dedicated at best, fanatical at worse. Devotion to duty is all well and good until it devolves into all consuming obsession, until you can’t pull back and see the rest of the world around you, the things passing you by, the things that matter more.

They have broken protocol once, in the wake of the assault on the base. She’d finished her business with the Council, assuring the Spokesman that while, _yes_ , they had _survived_ , they were emphatically _not alright_ and could the Council _please_ find it in its hearts and coffers to increase their budget so that they _didn’t_ have to operate from a base in shambles? Her ribs burned and her feet ached and when she closed her eyes, she still heard the screaming, still heard the klaxons. The Infirmary, already clogged with wounded, had been able to do little more than splint his wrist, pending x-rays once the most seriously injured had been stabilized. 

So, yes, she’d buried her face in his chest; yes, he’d held her close, mindful to avoid the three cracked ribs.

“Really thought I was gonna lose you there for a minute,” he’d said. ”Scared the hell out of me.”

“I have no idea how you managed _that_ with a pistol, but I’m glad you did.”

So, yes, she’d leaned in closer; yes, he’d brought his good hand up to cup her cheek.

“I’m worried it’s some kind of trick, or that, I don’t know, that we missed something.” She’d told him. “I’m afraid we’re gonna wake up tomorrow and find this was some kind of dream and we’ve all been wiped out.”

“This is real, Lizzie. We made it. We’re safe.”

So, yes, they’d kissed.  They’d kissed because they were whole and alive. They’d kissed in case they weren’t and would wake to a vast glossy lake, and an ominous ferryman, gesturing for them both. They’d kissed. She refuses to regret it.

She knows they are playing a dangerous game, one that, should it backfire, will land them both in front of a court martial. She’d like to kiss him again, before it catches up to them. In truth, he’d like to get out of this life, find somewhere safe, settle down. She’d like time, time to get used to waking up next to him; time to find out what their routine might be like; time to build a life together.

She’s hopes they’ll get it.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: suicide allusion
> 
> If you're on tumblr, come say hi! I'm on as trbl-will-find-me and post other mini fics and meta (as well as some truly terrible memes). You can also find me on dreamwidth as troublewillfindme!

“Bullshit,” Gunda says. “Flip’em over.”  
  
Kelly smirks, revealing her four aces. “I’m almost offended you don’t trust me.”  
  
Gunda groans. “Let’s get it over with.”

Kelly pushes the pile of cards towards the woman and the Commander chuckles from her spot on the couch.

“You want in next round, ma’am?” Wallace asks.

“Oh, no,” she grins. “I am quite content to sit and commentate.”  
  
“Sounds like someone’s afraid to lose, ,” Krieger sing-songs.

“More like, I’m afraid to give any of you a shot at getting a read on my tells.”

“Planning on some bullshitting?” Kelly asks.

“No, but I _am_ planning to beat all of your asses at poker, given the opportunity.”

“You play?”

“I had a life outside of commanding, Wallace. Stop looking so shocked.”

“Yeah, but poker?” Gunda pushes.

“It can’t be all eat, sleep, shoot aliens. Believe it or not, I had a whole existence before XCOM. How do you think I paid for beer when I was writing my dissertation?”

“You went to grad school?”

“Again with the disbelief, Wallace. I’ll have you know I have a Masters _and_ a PhD, for all that those are worth now. Before I joined on, I’d never held a gun in my life.”

“Who taught you to shoot?”

“Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Kelly cackles. “Oh, man. Central? Really? I can picture it now.”

She nods. “I’m not sure who was more nervous.”

“Wait, so if you’re not military,” Krieger begins. “How _did_ you end up joining?”

She sets the datapad next to her. “It’s a long story, but it boils down to catching the right eyes and having the right connections. Write the right papers, present at the right conferences,” she shrugs. “Have family friends who set you on unusual career paths.”

They stare at her.

“Alright, shorter answer: serendipity. I’d published a few papers that made waves in the right communities. When the project was taken out of mothballs, someone thought I had something to offer, and I got an invitation to the table.”

“You got your command based on papers?” Gunda asks, incredulity hanging from every word.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Not … not exactly. And I wasn’t the first choice.”

“Who was?”

“Hope you saved some of those guesses.”

Wallace almost spits his coffee over the table. “Central? No.”

“Yeah,” she nods.

“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Kelly asks. The Commander swears there’s something approaching offense in the ranger’s voice.

“Central,” Wallace says slowly.

“He’s more than capable,” the Commander counters. “I wouldn’t be here if he weren’t.”

“Why didn’t he take it?” Krieger asks.

“That’s his story to tell, not mine. You wanna find out, go ask him.”

“Ma’am, I’d really rather not be booted out the airlock.”

“I doubt that would happen. He’d have to go through Engineering, and I don’t get the sense Lily would appreciate her workspace being disturbed.”

“Shen versus Central,” Wallace proposes. “Who wins?”

“Not us,” she says, picking the datapad up again. “We’d be sunk without those two.”

“It’d be a draw,” Sally cuts in, poking her head out from one of the bunks. “Neither would be able to throw the first punch.”

“How long have you been listening?” Kelly asks, craning her neck.

“Long enough to know none of you read personnel files.”

“We’re too busy in the field, unlike someone, no?” Thomas quips as he breezes through quarters, stopping at the card table.

“It’s alright,” Sally smiles. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up while you recover from that broken jaw you’re gunning for.”

“Easy, you two,” the Commander says. “Thomas, report to wherever it is you’re going. Sally, aren’t you in enough trouble as it is?”

“ _Assez, non, chérie?_ ” Thomas coos, already on the move.

“Not worth it,” Kelly mouths, shaking her head at the younger woman.

“I’m gonna light that stupid braid of his on fire,” Sally grumbles.

“Please don’t,” the Commander says, unlocking the device on her lap. “Burning hair smells awful.”

Five sets of eyes fixate on her. “How do you---“  
  
“Sally, your hair is longer than mine. You’re telling me you never caught a bit in a candle or a campfire?”

“I thought that story was headed somewhere a lot darker,” Krieger mutters.

“It’s not _all_ doom and gloom,” the Commander says, turning her attention back to the briefing the Spokesman had sent after his call. “Sometimes, you just have a mishap with a roommate’s candle. If I start talking about the smell of burning flesh, then you can worry.”

Sally shakes her head. “Well, given how bad this place smells already with all the cigarettes, I’m not gonna be the one to make it worse. I’ll be on the range if anybody needs me.”

“Wait up,” Kelly says, standing. “I’ll go with you.”

“Don’t trust me not to get creative?”  
  
“Don’t trust you to listen to your better angels.”

\--

She sometimes laughs when she thinks of how well teaching prepared her for commanding. Certainly, the scale and severity of the consequences have changed, but at its core, her day still consists of crisis management, ego management, and a parade of faces through her door. Yes, essays have been replaced by intel briefings and After Action Reports, but at last she’s not expected to offer meaningful feedback on how to improve their construction or clarity. Instead of fraternity boys and sorority girls, she now has her soldiers and all the questionable behavior that entails.

Bernard, Pukkila, and Lan are all crowded around the table in the Common Room, a pad of flip chart paper in front of them.

“No, you’d be crazy to make that a down your drink,” Lan insists. “We’ll all be out our livers by the end of the week. We’ll never make it to the ceremony.”  
  
“Means you need a stronger liver,” Pukkila counters.

“He has a point, no? It’s supposed to be enjoyable, not a suicide run,” Bernard muses.

“What are we sacrificing our livers for?” She asks, craning over the heavy’s shoulder for a look at the paper. “I don’t think Central’s forgiven you three for the safety briefing shots game yet.”

“Central Officer Bradford will be happy to know he’s not involved in this one,” Lan says. “This time it’s all for our favorite happy couple.”

“Oh no,” she groans. “Really, guys?”

“ _Ouai_ ,” Bernard drawls. “We should have some fun too.”

“No,” she says, eyeing the three men. “Those two have enough going on with their families as it is.”

“Oh god, we know,” Pukkila groans. “Royston’s mom is having a bigger fit than mine did when I came out. And she’s marrying someone of the _expected_ gender.”

“Martin’s father’s no better,” Bernard says. “Less shrill, though.”

“I don’t think they’ve gotten good wishes from either side,” Lan adds, shaking his head in sympathy. “I’m pretty sure it’s the most Martin’s heard from his dad since he got here, though. So, I guess that’s a positive.”

“Some line of communication is better than none?” The Commander asks. “Never thought of you as an optimist, Lan.”

“What can I say? I’m just sunshine and roses these days.”

“It’s cause he got laid this morning!” Molchetti calls down from the second level.

“ _Grazie_ , Isabella,” Lan calls, flipping the sniper off.  
  
“ _Prego, mio caro_!”

The Commander shakes her head. “Try not to make it worse for Edouard and Steph, okay? They’re already in a crappy spot.”

“And so are we,” Pukkila insists. “We keep having to listen to it!”

She glares at the assault. “Good, then practice your empathy.”

“Yes, _mom_ ,” he groans.

She shakes her head and continues toward Mission Control.

“Martin,” she says, pressing a finger to her comm once she’s sure she’s out of hearing range. “You got a minute?”

“Commander?”  
  
“Is Steph with you?”

“No, she’s with Hershel.”

“You might want to have words with Bernard and company, then. They’re planning a sequel to their drinking game.”

“ _Fils de putain._ Thanks for the warning.”

“Try not to put anyone in traction.”

“I make no promises for Steph.”

Mission Control is quiet. Scanning the day’s data, she spots two more energy spikes and her stomach twists. She knows Shen’s engineers are working as fast as they can, but she can’t ignore the twinge of panic.

_Come on, universe. Just give us a little more time. I know I screwed up. Don’t make everyone pay for it._

She’s not sure how the world would handle a resumption in hostilities --- or, more importantly, how the Council would. There’d be a stronger push for the weapons specs and, she concedes, a stronger case for it. She imagines, too, that there would be pressure for additional offensive development; with fully automated weaponry like the Sectopod running wild, the push for a proportional response would be intense.

She’s not sure how her people would handle it either. Operation Avenger had taken place November 14th, and in the aftermath, life had tilted swiftly back towards normal.  Only three days after, they had celebrated Central’s birthday with beer and cake. Two weeks after that, Martin had proposed to Royston. They had gone from a state of near constant alert, a life lived on caffeine and adrenaline, to one of more sustainable vigilance, a life where six hours of sleep was an attainable goal. The strains, the cracks that had widened into crevices, had gone quiet, suddenly manageable once the onslaught had been quelled. Bernard’s smoking is back to a reasonable level. Hershel says prayers other than the Kaddish. She’s even fairly certain Royston and Martin manage to sleep through the night sometimes. The base personnel are starting to lose the dark circles under their eyes, and some are even beginning to show up for shift without firearms. She can’t imagine morale would weather a second storm well.

In their time spent fighting the aliens, they’d only had a single self-inflicted casualty, and even that had felt like one too many. They’d all gotten used to funerals, to death and the rituals of mourning, but still, it had rattled them all. It was impossible to miss the way no one quite left Martin alone for any real period of time, the way the sharpest knives went missing from the kitchen. She has always been impressed, and maybe more than a little touched, at the way XCOM manages to look out for its own.

She knows that the holidays _would_ be an ideal time for the aliens to strike back. Psychologically, it would be devastating, the sight of bodies among the cheer, the ensuing chaos as people sought safety in overcrowded shops and streets. Her mind briefly flashes to New York, to Times Square, hundreds of thousands crammed into a space far too small to ever be evacuated quickly. They’d all be slaughtered on live television.

 _No, no, no_ , she tells herself. _We’re not doing this. We’re not playing what if. The comms are quiet. The comms have_ been _quiet. Molchetti scattered their ship out of existence_. _This is not a horror movie. There is no gotcha. Be rational._

She fights the urge to go search for a piece of wood to knock on. If she’s jinxed them, that’s sure to ward it off. Really. Go knock on wood and throw some salt, anything to ward off the sense that she’s just invited trouble.

She draws her sweater closer. _You’re being absurd. You can’t control that. You can’t control_ them. _No single thought, unaccompanied by action, has ever led to an attack. Never. It’s an explanatory fiction. Don’t go down the rabbit hole._

She picks at the skin of her thumb, already rubbed raw, and is momentarily surprised to find a bandaid covering it.

 _Of course_. That had been Central’s work yesterday, after he’d watched her tear at the offending flesh for the duration of a staff meeting. He’d waited until Shen and Vahlen had left, then pulled the bandage from his wallet, wrapping it around her finger.

“It hurts just looking at that,” he’d told her. “It’s gotta sting.”

 “At least it feels like something.”


	11. Eleven

They’ve got a solid lead on the local Resistance. Recent signs of life and regular heat signatures bode well for their hopes of making contact.  
  
But, it would seem she’s forgotten the first rule of war, maybe even the first rule of life: anything that _can_ fuck you over, will.

The images before the feed cuts out are horrific, civilians scrambling to evade well-armed, well-armored troops dropping from ships onto the ground below. The adrenaline kicks and blood pounds in her ears.

 _Deep breaths,_ she tells herself. _No good decision has ever been made as the kick comes. You have to think this through. You have to think. Have to ---_

 _“_ Commander, we have to do something!”

It was always the terror attacks that used to get under his skin. Of all the things the John Bradford she knew could not abide, it was civilian casualties. XCOM’s men made a choice. A death reverberated through the ranks for weeks after; the alcohol stores ran dangerously low. But he’d remind her that their men believed in a cause and were willing to die for it, that they’d find a way to make that sacrifice mean something.

She was never sure if he’d said it for her benefit or his.

Civilian deaths were something else entirely. XCOM’s job was to stop the unstoppable, to save the un-save-able. They were meant to be some bastion of strength, of hope. They weren’t supposed to watch as families were slaughtered, as lives were cut short without regard, as parents lost children and children lost parents.

They could spend weeks after an attack analyzing the footage, playing and replaying decisions and tactics. Could they have been faster? Should they have sent in more mobile forces? Should they have taken a more offensive stance, or would a more defensive one have spared lives?

“Go,” she says, nodding towards the controls. “Shen,” she continues, pressing a finger to her ear. “We’re headed in to deal with ADVENT in one of the havens. Do what you can to prep some extra medikits and take stock of what we can spare to help them back on their feet. Tygan, get ready. We’re gonna have wounded.”

“I should be on that team,” Sally says somewhere behind her. “You’ve gotta know that.”

“No,” Central growls.

“I’ve been through these. You’ve seen me. I know what to expect.”

“No.”

“Look, I get that I’m grounded,” Sally starts, “but come on. This isn’t about me wanting to be in the field; this is about me being damn well qualified for this. How many did we survive?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

The ship thrums to life around them.

“What was the point of teaching me to shoot if you’re not gonna field me when I could help?”

“Drop it.”

“What’s the point of me being on this ship if you’re not gonna trust me on an op?”

“You want off? You’re eighteen at the end of next month, but right now, we have a job to do.”

She looks up in time to see the hurt flash across Royston’s face. 

“Fine. That’s how you wanna play this, maybe you’ve got the right idea.”

“ _Bien fait, ma ---_ “

“Thomas,” the Commander snaps. “Go prep the gear. We’re not gonna have time to spare.”

Royston’s hands curl into fists and then slowly, reluctantly unclench once again. Wallace offers her a sympathetic look and she manages a small, miserable smile in return.

“Kelly, Gunda, Krieger, Zaytsev, gear up,” she says, turning her attention to the Hologlobe. “You’re being deployed to an in-progress retaliation. Let’s go --- we’ve got people counting on us.”

\--

“I think the Council might have had a point,” she says, sitting down at the edge of the pool. “About me not being fit to command anymore.”

Central shakes his head, arms resting on the concrete next to her. “I’m sorry. Did I just hear you say the Council might have a point?”

“Yeah, she says, setting her boots next to her and dipping her feet into the water. “Or, that’s my worry.”

The urge to jump in again flits across her mind. She chalks it up to stress.

They are four days out from the completion of the isolation labs and the energy spikes are getting more and more frequent. _Something is coming, something is coming_ , drones her inner monologue. _Something is coming and you have to do something. This is your fault. Don’t forget that. Something is coming and it’s your fault and you need a plan_.

“You really wanna have this conversation here?”

“I don’t wanna have it somewhere with an audience.”

“The fact that we’re having it at all is unbelievable.”

“I can’t shut my head off. I already made one bad call because I was distracted, and we can’t afford another.”

“No, you made the right call given the situation at hand. There was a bigger problem. Besides, the civilians who were freed from that stuff seemed fine --- and you haven’t found anything contradicting that. You couldn’t have pushed the pods; it wouldn’t have made sense. You would have wasted time we needed --- we wouldn’t have survived the hit to the base without the improved gear. Don’t forget that.”

“There’s more spikes everyday.”

“And if we were still running on conventional weapons, we wouldn’t be here to track that.”

“What if I make another bad call?” 

“Have you not been listening to me?”

“No, I mean it. I can’t … I can’t shut my head off. It’s one long panicked stream of consciousness. _No one’s_ fit to command like that.”

“You really think if I had concerns I wouldn’t have said something?”

She pauses, considering the question.

“If I thought you couldn’t run this operation, you and I would have had a talk. And if that hadn’t been enough, I would have gotten Shen and Vahlen’s backing and had Medical declare you unfit for duty.”

“That’s oddly comforting, actually.” 

“You have responsibilities and so do I.”

“You’re sure?”

He cocks his head at her. “This has you rattled, doesn’t it?”

“I dunno. It’s not _just_ this, to be fair. I think, even if this, whatever it is, weren’t on the horizon, I’m still not sure I’d be able to shut my head up. I’m always expecting something. Like … you’re gonna laugh. I don’t know that I believe in ‘normal’ now, knowing what’s out there, what could be out there. That’s worrisome in and of itself.”

“You looked into the abyss and the abyss fired back. You think you’re the only one who’s been changed by what we saw? What we did? Because I’ve got news for you.”

“But they’re not the ones making judgment calls.”

“I’d like to think I make _some_ , Commander.”

 “It’s eating you too, huh?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t always sleep with a gun under my pillows.”

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?"

“Beats not sleeping at all. Besides, I’m not about to start popping pills. I don’t want to consider the ramifications of doing that.”

She nods, remembering a snowy funeral a month prior to activation. They’d cremated his father out of convenience, though she knows he hasn’t had time to spread the ashes. They sit in a small, metal urn at the bottom of his footlocker, patiently waiting a more permanent final resting place.

“It’s no surprise,” he’d said at the time. “Give Dad a drink, and… this was the only way it was gonna end.”

Instinctively, she covers one of his hands with her own.

“It’s not even on my radar,” he offers. “I’ll stick to chamomile and melatonin. I’m not going anywhere.” He takes a breath. “But you can’t either.”

“If you get the _slightest_ inkling---“  
  
“If I’m worried you’re unfit, you’ll know. That’s a promise.” 

\--

She hesitates to say things are going well, but Resistance forces on the ground have done what they can to corral civilians and are putting up a good fight against ADVENT. There are still too many bodies on the ground, in the ramshackle buildings, and in forgotten corners for her to truly feel good. If they keep up, though, the haven will have a halfway decent shot at survival; it will have to be enough.

A Stun Lancer emerges from behind a dumpster, striking the nearest civilian in the chest with his electrified mace. The man falls dead with a scream, their third casualty since landing.

“Commander ---“

“I see, Central. Krieger, do what you can to take him down. He’s one of our last hostile signatures.”  
  
The specialist shoots and misses spectacularly, her bullet lodging in a nearby tree.

The Lancer takes the opportunity to dive into cover, flattening himself behind a rock and within strike range of another civilian.

“Kelly, can you do something about that?”

“On my way, ma’am.”

The ranger weaves through the wreckage, then takes a flying leap, bringing her sword down hard on the assailant’s head. There is a sickening crack and the attacker falls to the ground.

“Good work; we’ve still got a ---“

She’s cut off by a noise out of her nightmares, something wet and gelatinous and almost certainly in motion.  Her eyes bounce from camera feed to camera feed, looking for the source, but there’s nothing – _nothing--_ that should be making that sound.

Until jet black claws slash through Zaytsev and Gunda, leaving one unconscious and the other with a red halo blossoming around him.

“Take that _thing_ down!” Central shouts.

“Krieger! Kelly! Keep clear of those claws, but do what you can to end whatever the hell that is.”

The local fighters take aim and fire, unloading clips into the thing. Krieger nabs it in the eye, and Kelly delivers the final blow, a shotgun blast to the side. It melts, rather than collapses, a pile of putrid peach-colored goo.

“All hostiles down,” she says, checking the scanner. “Go triage the other two. We’ll get a team down there to assess the damage.”

“Roger,” Kelly answers. “Wilco.”

She lets out a long sigh. “Jesus Christ.”

“We’ve had rumors of shapeshifters,” her XO offers. “Not surprised to find out they’re substantiated.”

“Yeah, but the question becomes are they sleeper agents or do they drop as infiltration?” 

He shakes his head. “Not sure. We might have to settle for keeping an eye on it.”

“Commander? Central?” Kelly’s voice wobbles over the comm. “I think we’re looking at a head injury. Zaytsev’s stabilized but Gunda’s still not … she isn’t coming to.”

“She’s got a pulse,” Krieger cuts in. “So, she’s definitely alive.”

“But she’s not waking up,” Kelly counters. “We’vegot a problem.”

“Tygan,” Central says, pressing a finger to his comm. “They’re gonna need you on the ground. Now. Possible head injury.”

“Civilian?”  
  
“One of ours.”

“I’m on my way.”

She rakes a hand through her ponytail and draws a breath. She suspects they’re woefully unprepared for a brain injury, assuming Kelly instincts are correct. Tygan is brilliant, no doubt, but molecular biology and biochemistry are not neurology. They are not rehabilitation. The Avenger does not have the facilities; an Infirmary is certainly on the list of things to build, but they can only work so fast, and they _needed_ comms. They _needed_ the proving grounds. They _need_ another power converter.

 _And now_ , _we_ need _an Infirmary._

She rubs at her eyes for a moment, then turns her attention back to the task at hand. “Attention, all hands,” she says into the comm. “We’re putting down on the outskirts to help with clean up and rebuild. Our job is to get these people back on their feet, and to do it quickly. Shen and Central will coordinate efforts on the ground; they’ll have more specific assignments for you soon. In the meantime, remember these people have just had a really _bad_ day; we’ve all lost people, and today, it was their turn. Be gentle.”

 _And say your prayers that we don’t lose one of our own_ , she adds silently.

 

If the first rule of war is that anything that can fuck you over, will, its corollary is this: anything that can save you, won’t.


	12. Twelve

She’s in her office when Royston knocks. “Commander? You got a minute?”

“Door’s open.”

Steph settles heavily in a chair on the other side of the desk. “Is that offer to hold the wedding here still good?”  
  
“Yeah,” she says, looking up from her papers. “I can’t lift the safety restrictions, so you’re stuck with us as photographers, but I see no reason why we couldn’t have it here.”

“Central alright with it?”  
  
“He’s more sympathetic than you’d think.”

The tension drains from the sniper’s shoulders. “Oh, thank god.”  
  
“Martin’s fine with it?”

She nods. “To put it lightly.”

“Your folks really put you two through the ringer, huh?”

“I can’t call home without it being an issue. Used to be it was just mom, but now she’s got dad roped in, too. At this point, I could pierce my nose, cover myself in tattoos, and I still think they’d be more interested in ‘how could you marry someone you haven’t even known a year?’”

She grimaces.

“It’s not much better for Edouard. His mom’s made peace with it, but his dad’s a … big personality. He tends to dominate the conversation. And,” she adds, lowering her voice. “He doesn’t really believe I speak the language, so.”

“So, you get to hear the whole ugly, unfiltered version.”

 “I try to make myself scarce when those calls happen. On the upside, now I’ve got something to do with that time.”

“You have a time frame for it?" 

“Molchetti keeps sending me wedding blogs. I guess we’ll figure out a … thing and go from there. So, end of January? Maybe?”

“That’s fine. We can requisition most things quickly these days. I just need to know what they are.”

Royston cracks a grin. “Don’t think you can requisition lifetime supplies of Xanax, ma’am.”

She laughs. “Unfortunately, not. But ear plugs? Those, we can get.”

The sniper groans and buries her face in her hands. “It’s not like we’re seventeen with a crush. We went to _war_ , for crying out loud. Holy shit,” she says, quietly. “We went to _war_. Sorry,” she shakes her head. “That’s still feels weird to acknowledge.”

“Aliens invaded the planet. We went to war from a secret base under the Kansas cornfields. They turned our friends against us, tried to use them to kill us, and we responded by knocking their ship out of _existence_. I’d be concerned if those things _didn’t_ feel weird. I don’t think most of us have really had the time to process it.”

“Bernard seems okay. Central seems alright. Dr. Vahlen’s practically chipper.”

“Moira Vahlen is a woman whom I both deeply respect and about whom I have serious concerns. Try not to use her as a gauge. As for Bernard and Central, they’re career military. They expect to say ‘I went to war.’ Most CIA case officers aren’t quite in that boat, Royston.”

“I didn’t even _believe_ in aliens before all of this. So, when the offer came through,” she trails off.

“Do you regret it?”

 “Don’t get me wrong: I’d love to make it through the night without high-def, surround sound nightmares, but no. I wouldn’t trade what I did or who I met here for anything. We saved the world.”

 _Don’t jump the gun on that_ , she wants to say. _There could always be something coming down the pipeline. The pods. There’s something there, but I don’t know what, and I know it’s coming for us all_.

“Yeah,” she finally offers. “We did.”

\--

They spend the first day digging graves. There are enough survivors to keep the haven running, but the toll is high. The dead lie, like fallen toy soldiers, on the southern edge of the shantytown, waiting for a final resting place, growing cold and stiff as night falls. There are whole families in their numbers, the old and the young alike. If she looks too quickly, she thinks she can see the faces of Strike One.

But, of course, that’s ridiculous --- they are all long gone.

She wonders who buried them, if anyone gave them that courtesy. They had given their all; each and every one had deserved a proper memorial.  She realizes, sadly, that their names are almost certainly forgotten to all but a handful of people. She doubts the dead before her will be remembered much longer.

They break for dinner, a quiet, somber affair consisting of whatever they can carry out from the Avenger and cook over campfires. Her people break into small groups, save for Krieger, who takes her dinner on the ship; she has a job to do, but also a vigil to keep. 

Her remaining soldiers split into groups. Science and Engineering clump together. Tygan takes dinner in his lab while Lily eats quickly, then turns her attention back to repairing the damaged water purifier.

Central doesn’t eat, just takes a nip off of the flask he carries in his side pocket, and keeps his attention on the local Resistance leaders, and the matter of what to do going forward.

She looks around for a moment, watching, taking in the life among the carnage, then sets her unused bowl near the others. She never liked stew anyway.

Digging is hard. The ground is rocky and the shovel awkward in her hands. Her back hurts, her arms hurt, and she’d give her left kidney for a backhoe, or even a pair of work gloves.

It doesn’t matter, though. The holes have to be dug if they expect any chance of funerals tomorrow.

Sally makes her way back next, her own shovel in hand, and begins working from the other side of the grave.

“Sal,” the Commander begins. “About what happened on the Bridge today…”  
  
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she says. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not it,” she says, tightening her grip on the handle. “I mean, that’s …” She heaves a sigh. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d appreciate it if you’d consider staying with us once you hit eighteen.”

Sally brushes a stray hair back with her shoulder. ”I’m not,” she groans, heaving a pile of dirt to the side. “I’m not planning on leaving, ma’am.”

“Wasn’t sure after today.”

She can make out the silhouette of the girl shaking her head by the light of the portable lantern. “That’s just …” She heaves another pile of dirt out. “I dunno. Something to say, I guess. Ugh,” she intones, removing a worm from her pants. “I like to remind him he’s not the only one who can make threats.”

“Uh-huh,” the Commander nods, hefting another shovelful of dirt out.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Sally offers. “Things were not always this fucked up.”

“I _did_ put you in a shitty position the other day."

Sally drives her shovel into the dirt again. “Nah. I’ve been with him long enough to know when a bad episode’s coming --- you were fine. And he was too distracted to notice me dumping bottles out. Besides, I’d already been on his case about you two. Part of the job description.”

“What’s the job?”

“Professional tragic waif.”

She  almost laughs. “You’ve got some sense of humor.”

Sally pauses for a moment, leaning on her shovel. “Laugh or cry, Commander. If I start crying, I don’t know how I’m gonna stop.”

“Yeah,” she says, depositing another pile of dirt. “I appreciate that sentiment.”

\--

“Commander,” Central’s voice sounds in her ear. “When you get a minute, it seems we have a situation.”

She pushes herself up on one hand. “Could you elaborate on that, Central?”

“Entirely terrestrial in nature, ma’am. We’re not looking at hostile contact. But, beyond that, you’ll have to come see.”

“I’m on my way.”

She slides out of her bunk and crosses the floor from her small room out into the Common Room and on toward Mission Control.

From the hallway, she hears a bark, and picks up her pace.

Central is standing in front of the Hologlobe, staring bemusedly at a SHIV. Something barks, and he shakes his head.

“Alright. Where’s the dog?” She asks. “I’m assuming that’s why you called me in.”

“It would seem our engineers are starting to run low on work, Commander. Meet ROV-R.”

“ROV-R?”

He gestures down towards the SHIV. “ROV-R.”

The SHIV rolls towards her, the sound of panting playing from its speaker. It tilts its gun mount -- now retrofitted with a camera -- up at her, as if asking for affection. The impression of a small, flying drone tickles the back of her mind. It’s familiar, so familiar, but she can’t put a finger on where’s it’s from. Her heart swells with fondness for the little character, though, and she almost turns to Central to ask if he remembers its origin.

_He won’t know._

Instead, he kneels down and pats its chassis. “Dr. Shen,” she asks, pressing a finger to her comm. “We have a robot-dog now?”

“My apologies, Commander.”

“No apologies needed, but, one question: how advanced is the AI?”

“It’s largely autonomous; we were developing the unit for search and rescue work. The men decided that some … ancillary features would be a boost to morale.”

“So, yes, we can teach him tricks.”

Behind her, she hears Central trying to stifle a laugh.

“At a minimum. As we work to decode more of the alien systems, we hope to repurpose them for our own uses. ROV-R serves as a kind of test unit.”

She nods, though she realizes the gesture won’t carry over the comm. “Right. Well, in that case, carry on.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

She rises, and offers the robot a few affectionate pats on the head. It’s rear antenna begins swaying from side to side, a rough approximation of a tail wag.

“Well,” her XO offers. “We did need a mascot.”

“A robot dog powered by alien tech. Somehow, it’s fitting.”

ROV-R emits another prerecorded bark and rolls off, eager to explore more of the base, panting all the way.

“On the upside, we won’t have to take him out in the morning.”

She watches the robot go, and runs a hand through her hair. “Probably shouldn’t ask Shen about making him fluffy.”

“Absolutely not.”

\--

It’s late when they finish digging, and even later by the time she’s finished her check-ins with Shen and Tygan, and taken a shower. Still, she pads down to the bar, wet hair braided back. They’ve come this far; she’s not willing to risk losing the progress they’ve made.

“He filled a flask and headed out,” Kelly says from her spot. “If you’re looking for Central, that is.”

The Commander nods. “How are you holding up?”

The ranger stares at her beer bottle. “It’s not my first go with ADVENT, so I should have known what to expect. And, all things considered, we did … well, okay. But those people could have been my parents. They’re still someone’s family.” She shakes her head. “And that’s not even counting what happened to Gunda. She’s got a son, you know. He’s five. He’s probably never gonna know his mom.”

“We can still hope.”

“You don’t look like someone who got good news, ma’am.”

She shakes her head. “Not at the moment. But, there’s always a chance. We never know what tech we’ll salvage, where it might take us.”  
  
“And in the meantime?”

“We do the only thing we can,” she sighs. “Keep her comfortable.” She crosses behind the bar, filling her bottle with water. “I’m gonna go find where he went. Comms are on if anything happens.”

Kelly nods. “Good luck.”

ROV-R chirps as she heads down through Engineering, and she offers Lily a wave. The night air is damp around her, and she pulls the shell closer around her shoulders.

Central’s not hard to find, the small glow of one of the lanterns giving his position away in the dark. She’s careful to approach from the front, not wanting to startle him.

“You want company?”

He offers her his flask in response.

She settles down next to him, against the same tree trunk, shoulders almost touching. She can feel the warmth radiating off of him, and has to fight the urge to lean her head on his shoulder. She wouldn’t have thought twice about it in the days before the Invasion, assuming they didn’t have an audience --- it would have been expected. He would have threaded an arm around her waist, his hand curled over her hip.

But they aren’t those people any more.

She downs a drink and wrinkles her nose. “Didn’t know you were a bourbon drinker.”

“Beats wood alcohol.”

Her eyebrows shoot up as she passes him the flask.

“Kidding,” he says, “Still got some sense.” He pauses a moment. “You weren’t who I was expecting.”

“Think Kelly would have made it eventually, but, between you and me, she’s pretty rattled.”

“News from Tygan wasn’t good,” he asks, though it ‘s more a statement than a question.

She shakes her head. “Pretty grim.” 

He downs a shot, and passes the flask back to her. “So, what do we do?”

“Cross our fingers? Hope for some kind of insight off whatever tech we can steal? I don’t know. Keeping her comfortable seems like the only real option.”

She passes him the flask, and they sit in silence for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, “about the datapad. And Sally. It wasn’t the best way to have handled it.” She pauses, chewing on her lip.” But I don’t know how to do this without you and…” she trails off. “Doesn’t excuse it.”

Another shot.  “It worked. That’s all that matters.” 

“I wouldn’t have roped Sally in, if I’d realized things were that bad.”

“As far as messengers, you couldn’t have picked a better one. She’s persuasive when she needs to be.”

“I could have gone myself.” She shakes her head. “I _should_ have gone myself but I was mad at you, and well. Point is, I’m old enough to know better.”

“We didn’t need a second round of shouting.”

“You think that’s where it would have gone?”

“I wasn’t real happy with you, either.”

“Probably already enough scuttlebutt.”

“Your story time the other day certainly added to it.”

She chuckles. “They wanted to take bets on who’d win in a fist fight between you and Shen.” 

“What?” He asks, furrowing his brow. “I’m not fighting Shen.”

“That was Sally’s point.”

“Why the hell did that even come up?”

“The odds of Shen allowing you to muss up her workspace as you dragged someone out the airlock.” 

She can feel Central’s eyes on her. “First of all, it wouldn’t be a drag, it would be a throw. And second, odds are good Shen would help.” He takes another drink, then passes her the flask. “If Thomas keeps it up, he’s gonna find out.”

She takes a sip. “Getting tired of the booty shorts?”

“Shit-giving is its own kind of bonding, especially in tight quarters, but there’s a limit.”

“You mean Sally,” she says, as he takes the flask.

He raises his eyebrows in silent admission as he downs another drink.

“What even set that off?”

“His arrogance, her impatience, my crappy parenting: take your pick.”

“She’s a good kid.”

“She had her mother for the important things.” 

“Resourcefulness, dedication, sense of humor,” she says, ticking traits off on her fingers. “Sorry to tell you, Central, but that’s you.”

He offers her a sad smile, but shakes his head. “So’s her aversion to this,” he says, tapping the flask, and downing yet another drink.

“Not the worst thing to pass on.”

“Only if she keeps it up.”

 

“Have some faith,” she says as she leans back against the trunk. “You got her this far.”


	13. Thirteen

She watches from behind glass as three sealed containers are loaded off the Skyranger by technicians in hazmat suits. Shen had pushed his team hard to complete the isolation labs ahead of schedule, and she’s grateful. She’s hoping with Vahlen’s own insatiable curiosity propelling the research team, they might soon have some answers.

Her tablet beeps and she cringes; her most recent requests have fallen on deaf ears, and she doesn’t foresee a different outcome for this latest one.

Officially, XCOM has no authority to examine the medical records of civilians. It also lacks the authority to order medical quarantines, exams, or procedures. She herself had insisted on that very protection; giving an international black ops military organization that much sway over civilian lives seemed a set up for an egregious abuse of power.

She stands by that decision, but right now, she’d give her left arm to have made a different one.   

She’d like to say she can’t blame the Council nations for refusing to intervene; they have a duty to protect their citizens’ privacy, a duty she’d like to think they take seriously. The whole of human history, however, tells her that it is less about governments acting for the greater good, and more about punitive bullshit.

Central has always been the better diplomat, the one with a gift for defusing tensions and parrying concerns. His edges have never been as rough as hers, his tongue not quite as sharp. She thinks, not for the first time, that he should have taken the command when it was offered to him.

She finally checks her tablet, pulling up the notifications. The Australian government has predictably denied her request. She huffs a sigh, and darkens the screen. She’s going to need a substantial amount of coffee if she intends to make it through this shift.

\--

She wakes to the sound of someone knocking at her door. When she opens it, Wallace is there, face drawn.

_Oh no._

“Ma’am, um,” he breathes. “Dr. Tygan sent me up. He wanted me to tell you that Asha’s … She’s not going to be with us a lot longer.”

She nods. “Thanks, Wallace. I’ll get a hold of him.” 

She screws her eyes shut after she watches him go. She remembers how to do this all too well.

She’d had more than her fair share of practice writing condolences during the Invasion.  _Sorry I didn’t see the alien coming. Sorry I was sure someone else would make the shot. Sorry I screwed up and got your loved one killed._  Yes, the words themselves are prettier, more eloquent, but the sentiment is always the same.

“Tygan,” she says, pressing a finger to her comm.”Someone with her?”

“Krieger is, ma’am.”

“Alright,” she sighs. “You have any idea what happened?" 

“I can only speculate, Commander.”

“Shoot.”

“Epidural hematoma --- a kind of bleeding between the skull and the outer lining of the brain.”

“Jesus. Alright, keep me updated.”

She reaches for her tablet, moving Krieger to inactive status. Deathbed vigils aren’t the kind of thing you cycle back onto duty in the aftermath of. She knows there is no way to quantify the emotional labor the specialist has undertaken, or its particular toll.

She reaches for a pad of paper and a pen. Even after all this time, it still feels strange to write directly onto a tablet. It is too removed, too impersonal. Her words stare back at her, blinking and ephemeral. There is no time to think, only the demand to produce, to put the right words in the right order. Pen and paper have always been more forgiving in that regard, more patient and less strident. Make the marks, and think.  Cross your words out. Rewrite them. Scratch out six different attempts and then scratch them all out in the hope that you’ll find something meaningful, something that doesn’t sound so hollow, something better than I’m sorry because, _god_ , if that isn’t the worst cliché.  

_Everyone’s sorry_. _I’m sorry. Tygan’s sorry.  The man in the moon is sorry. At the end of the day, it doesn’t change anything. It’s as empty a platitude as anything else._

But it is the best she can offer.

 _The best_ , she thinks, bitterly. _What a joke. What an empty superlative. You did your best when the aliens first landed, and XCOM still fell and the governments still collapsed. We’re still facing a battle of unfathomable odds. You did your best today --- there are still whole families waiting to be buried and Gunda is still dying. Best, best, best, but what good did it really do? Does it matter if nothing changes? It’s a word, a concept without any real meaning, the thing you tell yourself at night when those sneaking suspicions you’d try to get ignore get a little too loud._

She thinks of Strike One, of Hershel and Molchetti, of Royston and Martin and Bernard; of Raymond Shen and Moira Vahlen; of Gunda and the civilians. Her best had not been enough to save any of them.

She shrugs on a fleece and makes her way through the ship, through Engineering, down the ramp, and out into the night air. She settles on one of the rocks and draws a matchbook from her pocket, reigniting the camp fire.

It’s a slow process, a frustrating one. She throws each failed attempted into the flames, taking some perverse satisfaction in the way the offending papers blacken and burn.

The sun rises halfway through draft number seven. Her twelfth draft roasts away on the flames as night shift changes to morning. After twenty-three drafts, she has run out of paper and douses the flames before returning to the ship.

She is on comms duty when Tygan’s voice sounds in her ear. “She’s passed, Commander.”

She can feel a lump grow in her throat. “Did she suffer?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Thanks, Doctor. I’ll let the rest of the crew know.”

Digging the heels of her hands into her eyes, she draws in a deep breath, trying to regain her rapidly slipping composure. “Attention, all hands,” she says, pressing the comm in her ear. She can hear the tears at the edge of her voice, and wishes she could keep them at bay. “We just lost Asha. There’ll be a memorial at nineteen hundred local tonight. I know this is hard, but try to push through. It’s a big ask, I know, but we have to find some way to finish this first. We’ve got people counting on us.”

She tries to focus on the task at hand. She hopes her twenty-fourth attempt at a letter will go better.

“Commander,” Central’s voice cuts in, quiet. “What are we doing about burial?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to remember Gunda’s personnel file. “The haven where her family lives is still standing, isn’t it? We’ll finish what we need to do to get into the black site, and then take her home.”

“And in the meantime?”

She sighs. “Tygan’s cold storage is no different than a mortuary freezer.”

“You’re gonna put her with those _things_?”

“I don’t like it either, but if it means giving her family a chance to say goodbye, then yes.”

“Understood,” he says, voice clipped.

 _What do you want me to do?_ She feels like asking him. _What would be enough? Do you want me to bury her here, surrounded by strangers? Do you want me to order Tygan to dump his samples? What do I have to do to make you see that I’m trying? Tell me._

_It won’t help. And it won’t bring Gunda back._

\--

“I realize this makes me an enormous hypocrite,” she says, handing him a cup of coffee, “but I kind of wish I hadn’t insisted on such strict limitations on civilian access.”

He takes the cup from her, shaking his head. “Not a hypocrite, just frustrated.”

“It was the right thing to do, but god, did I hobble us when it comes to research this time around.”

“You were expecting Council support. We didn’t realize how unrealistic that would be until we were in the thick of things.”

“I don’t even need identifying data, you know. I just need blood samples. I didn’t think it would be this hard. It’s not like we’re asking for money this time.”

“It’s about power,” he tells her.

Even in hushed tones, it’s a stupid discussion to be having in Mission Control.

Technically, outside of personnel quarters and her office, everything they say or do is liable to be recorded and reviewed by the Council in the event of an inquiry. They are already playing fast and loose in their subterfuge. There’s no need to add to the risk.

He quickly seems to come to the same realization, settling his hand on the small of her back, and leading her towards the hallway, all the while making some excuse about expansions to the Skyranger hangar. He maneuvers them deftly through the halls, stopping at her office door, and waiting as she unlocks it. She’s momentarily disappointed when his hand drops back to his side, but chases the feeling from her mind.

 _Really?_ She chides herself. _That’s what you’re thinking about?_

He settles into a chair and waits for her to close the door. “I have samples coming for you.”

“What?” She asks, turning to face him. “How?”

He offers her a small grin. “I have ways.”

“This is one of those situations where I’m better off not knowing the details, isn’t it?” 

“Plausible deniability.”

She settles into her own chair, learning her elbows on the desk. “I thought we were done with cloak and dagger after we dealt with EXALT.”

“Another day, another challenge.”

She shrugs. “Welcome to XCOM, I guess.”

He chuckles. “Chin up. It’s been quiet.”

She sighs. “Yeah, but when it wasn’t, we knew what to expect. We didn’t like it, but aside from that little incident with Molchetti, there haven’t been surprises in a long time. I can’t shake the feeling we’re in for a bad one.”

“It might just be combat stress talking, Lizzie.”

“You really think so?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“Always.”

His face falls. “Probably not. If you’re right, I don’t think we’re gonna like what we find when we crack the Fog Pods open.”

She buries her face in her hands. “Shen and Vahlen are predicting two weeks for a complete initial analysis. That’ll put us just before Christmas.”

“You’re worried there’ll be trouble.”

“With the way the energy spikes are picking up, and with how quiet things have been, it’d be a hell of a way to re-emerge.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t think we can go to the Council. Not without solid evidence, and even then, I’m not sure that would be enough.”

“Strike One’s still on standby.”

She nods. “And we’ve got air and satellite coverage across the globe. We’re as prepared as we can be. I just wish it felt like it. Thank you,” she adds, after a moment. “For having my back through all of this.”

“I’m just doing my job.” 

“It’s a little more than that.”

“If I can take some of the stress off of you,” he says, standing. “It’s worth it. I’ll be in Mission Control, if you need anything.”

 _Just you_ , she thinks.

There are not many possibilities that give her pause these days, not after the sights they have seen and the horrors they have survived, but the possibility of a Council inquiry, and the resulting court martial proceedings that would likely follow, leave her with a sick pit in her stomach.

 _Could you speculate on Central Officer Bradford’s motives?_ She imagines them asking.

 _He believed me. He believed_ in _me._

The past tense of the sentence stirs an ache in her chest, something on her periphery that she’s tried to forget.

She shakes her head. _You’re being ridiculous. There’s nothing to suggest the Council even knows something’s afoot. You weren’t prohibited from contacting non-Council nations. You weren’t prohibited from obtaining a Fog Pod. You’ve done nothing to violate the explicit terms of the charter._

But subterfuge is subterfuge, and she can’t imagine the Council would appreciate their authority being so flagrantly undermined. She led XCOM to this place and he followed her, confident in her ability to play the game. If she falters now, if she fails, she’ll have dragged him into the fallout right beside her, implicated him in whatever punishment that should be hers and hers alone.

The thought terrifies her.


	14. Fourteen

She spends the time between the end of her shift and the memorial service writing and re-writing the letter to Gunda’s family. On the ground, XCOM’s finest do what they can to prop the haven up. Lily’s team finishes repairing the water purifier. Tygan restocks their depleted first aid supplies and does what he can to ward off infection in the wounded. The men attend burial after burial, heaping dirt over body after body. It is a long, trying day, and they all know the evening will bring them no respite.

Her thirty-fifth draft finally leaves her with something that doesn’t make her cringe to read.

The whole of XCOM, small as it is, files into the bar at the appointed hour. They pour drinks and look to her, their Commander, to offer some meaning, some comfort.

She hates eulogies.

She has only ever managed eloquence in debate, and even then, only on a few occasions. Central has always been better with speeches, with inspiring the kind of comfort and confidence she desperately wishes she could give the people gathered around her.

They are still looking.

“We lost a friend today,” she begins. “There’s no way to soften that blow. Asha’s warmth was contagious. You always knew you were in for a good time if she was in the mood to tell stories. You couldn’t hear her laugh and not join in.” She pauses to wipe at her eyes. “She wasn’t here for revenge. She wasn’t here to kick ADVENT’s teeth in. She was here because she believed we had the best shot at making the world a better place.”

“I’m not gonna give you all some line about making her death worth it because that’s bullshit. You can’t commodify a human life --- and you shouldn’t. No act, no victory, nothing will ever make her death somehow... acceptable. Fair. Whatever word you want to use.” She pauses again, scrubbing at her eyes. “I’d like to think we carry the ones we’ve lost with us, that we honor and remember them in the things we do, the stories we tell. So, if you get a chance to make the world a better place, even if it’s just for one person, take it. I can’t think of a better way to carry her forth.”

She raises her glass and the room joins in. It is the best she can do for them.

Moon sits with Krieger, doing his best to console her. Thomas is uncharacteristically quiet, contemplating his beer in the corner, while Wallace and Royston do what they can to comfort Kelly. Knight and Dynkin, the newest additions to the science team, chat quietly with Tygan while Shen and her engineers huddle over what the Commander can only hope are some kind of improved armor schematics.

She doesn’t see so much as feel Central slide into the seat next to her. She’d be lying to herself if she blamed her hyperawareness of his presence, of his warmth, of his physicality in a space and how it relates to her own simply on Berlin, but it’s a convenient scapegoat and she tries not to think of how long it really would have taken her to develop such an acute sensitivity.

Wordlessly, he hands her his flask, already half-empty. She takes a shot and passes it back, wrinkling her nose as the bourbon burns.

 _I’m lost_ , she wants to tell him. _I used to know the rules of the game with you, but they’ve changed. Or, maybe I’ve forgotten them. Maybe I didn’t know them in the first place, after all._

“I‘m sorry about earlier,” he says, taking another shot.

“It was a tough day for everybody.”

“It was out of line.”

“Come on, you run the day to day around here. We really worried about rank?”

“Wasn’t what I meant.”

She reaches over the bar, takes a glass, fills it with water, and places it in front of him. “Like I said, it was a shit day. No one’s in a good place.”

He wraps his fingers around the cool of the cylinder. “You were right, though. Better that we bury her someplace she’ll be remembered.”

They sit quietly for a few moments.

“Tygan’s team did what they could to clear space free of dissection specimens,” she offers.

He nods. “They’re good people.”

She looks around the bar, hand rubbing at the back of her neck. “We’re gonna need more help if we want to win this thing. A lot more.”

He nods again. “I know.”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the bar, and buries her face in her hands. _Go back to bed,_ a voice in her head says. _You don’t have to deal with this. It’s probably some bad dream, anyway. Go back to bed and maybe you’ll wake up where you’re supposed to be_.

She’s brought back to reality by Central’s hand, warm and solid on her shoulder. “We’ll find it. We’re not out of doors to knock on yet.”

It’s fleeting, gone before she can even really react, and its absence hurts more than it has any right to. She’s lucky he’s even talking to her; with each day, she realizes more and more what a risky move delivering the datapad to him had been.

She missed him. She _still_ misses him. She misses their history, the things that passed between them, glimpses of a life they might have once made for themselves. For as much as it’s the same old story, the same song and dance of blood and bullets and dead friends, it is an entirely new one. The players have changed and the plot too, but she is still here, scrambling for what was.

She can’t pinpoint a single source for the tears rolling down her cheeks. Instead, she simply wipes them away and accepts the flask that’s offered.

\--

“Commander,” Central’s voice sounds in her ear. “We’ve got an incoming transmission from the Council.”

Her stomach drops and her mouth runs dry. _We did nothing wrong_ , she tells herself. _We obeyed the charter. We did nothing wrong._

“Any idea what’s up?"

“Negative, ma’am.”

Her heart races. _This is it. They know. They’ve found some loophole, some detail we overlooked and they know. They heard something, saw something. Someone decided to see what Central was up to. They know._

She stands up from her desk and the world spins. “Alright. I’m on my way.”

She catches a glimpse of her reflection off of the glass set into the laboratory door. Her face is drawn and devoid of color. She shakes her hair loose from its bun, and fusses with it, hoping to lessen the appearance of the panic now gripping her.

Central looks concerned when she passes him in Mission Control, gently squeezing his arm as she heads for the Situation Room. She trusts him to understand what the gesture is meant to convey, even if she herself can’t quite narrow it down to a single message.

“Mr. Spokesman,” she says, frantically working to keep her voice calm and even. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Her heart thuds against her ribs and she fights the urge to pick at her fingers --- they are already ringed with band aids.

“Commander,” the Spokesman intones, ominous as ever as he stares down at her from the screen. “The Council has received word of your recent developments.”

A cold sweat breaks out across her skin. “You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Spokesman. Both Dr. Shen and Dr. Vahlen have teams at work on a variety of projects.”

She can feel her legs start to tremble, threatening to betray her terror. She hopes the jitter does not carry across the video feed.

“Dr. Shen’s recent AI efforts are of particular interest to a number of our members. They are requesting additional details on the mobile platform you call the SHIV, currently under redevelopment.”

She wants to laugh or cry or scream or maybe some combination thereof that she can’t properly imagine right now. Relief courses through her veins, and her heart begins to slow. “Yes, absolutely. I’ll have Dr. Shen compile a dossier on the most recent work.”

The Spokesman nods. “We will be in touch.”

The feed goes dead.

She collapses into the nearest chair, legs turning to jelly below her. She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to quell the terror that had so abruptly risen and been even more abruptly dispelled.

“Dr. Shen,” she says, pressing a finger to her comm link and hoping her voice does not audibly shake. “Please instruct your team to assemble a dossier on the most recent work on the non-weaponized SHIV experiments. Our friends on the Council are very interested.”

“They’ll have it within the week.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

She rests her head against the cool of the tabletop and waits for the nausea to subside.

She plays and replays the conversation in her head, trying to determine if the request was sincere or an attempt to fish for more information. She’s always struggled to secure an accurate read on the Spokesman, and she suspects that’s purposeful.

 _If they know_ , she asks herself, _why play the long game? Evidence? Maybe they know, and are waiting for us to make another request before they say anything. Maybe they’re waiting for us to slip up and violate the terms._

 _Or maybe, they don’t know at all_ , she counters. _Central said he’d relied on backchannels. Maybe the requests have been buried, encoded or lost among intelligence chatter. The Council is powerful, but there has to be a limit. No nation is_ that _forthcoming when it comes to sharing intel._

She is still shaking when she returns into Mission Control, though she’s managed to pin her hair back up, some faint air of professionalism restored.

“Central,” she says. “Expect a report from Shen’s team in the next few days. The Council’s taken an interest in ROV-R.”

He nods. “Word travels fast.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

“When you have a moment, I could use a word.”

“I’ll be in my office. Stop by at your leisure.”

He nods, “Ma’am.”

“Central.”

Back in the relative sanctuary of her office, she begins methodically disassembling the space. She removes the books from the shelves, and the computer from the desk. She runs her hand along edges, under tops, around corners. She pulls the drawers from the desk, the shade from the lamp, the cushions from the chair, looking for anything amiss, anything that should not belong.

She pries the cover from the outlet, the switch plate from the light, the corkboard from the wall. She will take no chances.

She’s reassembled the majority of it by the time he knocks.

“Redecorating?” He asks, surveying the remaining piles and the few drawers upended against the back wall.

“Ruling out a nasty feeling.”

“You find anything?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t really think I was going to, but after that call, I was taking no chances.”

“You think they know?”

She shrugs. “I can’t get a read either way. They’ve always held the cards, and they’ve got no reason to clue us in. Guess they figure it makes us easier to control.”

“If they’ve got all the power, then we’ve got no recourse.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why not take a little power back, then?”

“How? They’ve got the purse strings. They could cripple us.”

“That becomes a lot harder if the people of the world know who fought off the invaders.”

“Are you suggesting…"

“Make it look like a leak. You’d catch the public’s attention. Maybe find some alternative sources of funding.”

“I don’t think we could crowdfund our operating budget.”

“In a roundabout way, we could. There were non-Council nations who saw action. Don’t you think their populations might appreciate a guarantee of protection?”

“This is starting to sound like extortion.”

“If we demanded the money, sure. If we drop the right breadcrumbs, though, their people will do that for us. We get other funding, and the Council loses a good chunk of its leverage. We might even consider drafting our own charter.”

She eyes him. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“Everyone needs a backup plan.”

She rubs the back of her neck. “If we fuck this up ---“

“We won’t.”

“But if we do?”

“Then, I’ll flip you for the top bunk in the brig." 

_I love you_ , she wants to say. _This is crazy, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you_. _I can’t imagine a better partner --- in this, or anything else_.

 

Instead, she settles for offering him a smile. “Make it a best two out of three?”


	15. Fifteen

They make contact with the local cell a few days later, buying their trust with food and medical supplies. In return, their scouts lead Moon and Kelly right to the perimeter of the complex.

“Don’t get close, but see what you can gather,” she instructs over the comms. “I don’t want to go in totally blind.”

“Looks like an outbuilding and some sort of tracks on the approach,” Moon says. “Hard to see the facility from here.”

“Any sense of what kind of cover we can make use of?”

“Not much,” says Kelly. “A lot of low, barrier-type fences. Could maybe scale that outbuilding, but that’s more perch than protection.”

“What are you seeing in terms of a defensive complement?” 

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Confirmed visual on an Officer, some grunts, and a Sectoid, but other than that, it looks pretty light.”

“They weren’t counting on anyone finding this place,” Central says, crossing his arms. He stands across the Hologlobe from her, eyes fixed on scan data of the AO. Still, I’m betting they’ve got some kind of back up.”

“Let’s not meet them just yet. Kelly, Moon: head back to the ship. We’ll debrief here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wilco.”

“Thoughts?” She asks, turning her attention to Bradford.

“Whatever’s in there, I doubt we’re gonna like it.”

“Agreed, but who do we send in? Zaytsev’s down. Krieger’s in no position to be back on the duty roster. Thomas, Kelly, and Wallace are the obvious answers, but I hesitate to field them again without having a better sense of what they’re up against.”

“It’s a luxury we don’t have.”

She sighs. “I don’t disagree, but everyone has a breaking point. We can’t afford to have any of them finds theirs. Especially not on this op.”

“They’ve had time to process.”

“Digging graves isn’t exactly R&R.”

He rubs at his neck. “Unless you’re hiding seasoned recruits somewhere, Commander, I don’t see many other options.”

She runs her fingers through her hair, jostling strands loose from her braid. “We need more people.”

“I’m working on it. But for now ---“

“We’ll have to make do.”

He nods.

She knows the rules of war. If you want people to fight, you have to give them a cause to believe in. It can’t be any cause, though, and it can’t just be a good one. People don’t fight futile wars; they fight wars they believe they can win. Half the job of a propaganda campaign is convincing the masses they aren’t stepping into a slaughterhouse when they commit to the fight.

The other half, of course, is reassuring them that the cause is worth the lives of their brothers and sisters, the blood of their children, the conspicuous emptiness where friends once stood.

They’ll need concrete results if expect to make any inroads.

She leans on the rail surrounding the Hologlobe, eyes fixed on stills from the video feeds. “God, please let this go better.”

Bradford shoots her a look. “Not like you to tempt fate.”

“I’d throw salt, but I don’t think we have any to spare.”

“They’ll make it in, Commander.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”

\--

A key part of successful subterfuge is plausible deniability --- minimizing the risk that they’ll both be caught if the Council catches wind --- and a key part of plausible deniability is minimizing interactions inside and out of the public sphere.

It leaves her with entirely too much time on her hands.

She is sprawled on the couch of the Common Room, scrolling through the news on her tablet, when she clicks onto some story about the resurgence of the Asbury Park boardwalk. 

She’d been to Asbury once, years ago. She’d gone with friends to see the sights, walk in the footsteps of Springsteen and his E Street Band. The Casino was an empty shell, a gorgeous, rotting ghost at risk of being reclaimed by the ocean. From the empty winter beach, she could see trees spouting from the ruined interior.

They had bundled their way down to the Wonderbar, shrugging off coats and gloves and scarves to wrap themselves in the mystique of the shoreside town.

They’d made sure to leave before dark.

Apparently, some things do change.

The pictures of the boardwalk shine with color and life. People crowd into bars and restaurants, stroll down the street with armfuls of beautiful packages.  Her gut twists at the sight of the Casino, badly damaged by storms and the forward march of time. Tilly is still there, smiling down, but the place is otherwise unrecognizable. 

There’s a link at the bottom to the local paper, the _Asbury Park Press_ , with an article from some years ago. Her gaze flicks up to the clock on the wall; she has plenty of time before her shift begins. She clicks, and finds her way to the most recent headlines.

There’s nothing particularly interesting at first. News of local school sports teams, of recent real estate developments, and an editorial about the governor pass unremarked before her.

And then she stops dead.

 _Four missing in Pine Barrens_ , reads the headline. _Fifth confirmed to be mauling victim discovered last month._

She opens her email and briefly scrolls through. She doesn’t see his address among her recent contacts, but that’s hardly surprising.

She copies and pastes the link to the article into the body of an email and addresses it, trying not to smile as she does: _jerseydeviltracker69@gmail.com._

 _Only Weir_ , she thinks.

She tabs up to the subject line. _Pertinent to your interests … assuming you’re not on scene already_ , she types.

She keys in a cursory search, turning up a string of recent disappearances, and adds those links in. She suspects he’s already well aware, but she’s in want of anything better to do.

 _Besides_ , she thinks. _Maybe, one day, he’ll actually catch the bugger._

She tries to picture Weir’s face, almost always serious, with the grin of a proud fisherman, catch hung from a rack beside him, its blood pooling below, splashed across the front page of a newspaper. It’s a ridiculous image, the mere concept of it an exercise in absurdity.

Still, it makes her laugh.

_As if Weir would ever allow that kind of publicity._

She hits send and checks the time yet again. The whole endeavor has only taken up a paltry fifteen minutes.

She sighs. There is a reason she did not go into intelligence work.

\--

“Hit the deck!” She shouts, as the MEC launches a grenade volley.

It had been going _so_ well. They had made short work of the Troopers and the captain, and had dispatched the Sectoid without incident. Kelly had caught the Lancer as it rounded the corner, greeting it with a shotgun blast to the face.

They had moved through the trainloads of bodies, taking cover behind the glowing green sarcophagi, and picking off would-be assailants. She knows that the sight of her men, living and breathing amidst a sea of the dead and good-as-dead will be an image she carries with her for the rest of her life, the memory of Central’s horrified whisper in her ear.

The turret had given them all a scare, but even then, they’d managed to breach the facility with only the most minor of injuries.

But, they had all missed the opening volley, and things had gone downhill rapidly from there.

“Fuck,” she hears Wallace mutter. “That’s a lot of blood.”

“Medikit it and get ready to fire,” she says.  “Moon, what’re your sightlines like to the target?”

“They’re good, ma’am.”  
  
“Take the shot.” 

The spray of bullets connects squarely with the MEC’s chest armor, sending it clattering to the ground and exposing the understructure.

“Nice! Kelly, see what you can do to weaken it, but stay back.”

The ranger takes aim and fires, grazing the device. “Damnit,” she mutters. ”I’ll get it next time!”  
  
“Thomas, your move.”

She watches in vague horror as he removes the pin from his grenade and hurls it towards the MEC.

“Down!”

The feed from all four cameras distorts, the shock and debris from the explosion occluding her view.

“Menace? Menace!”                                                                                                              

“Everyone’s here, ma’am,” Kelly groans.

“What the hell, Thomas?”

“It solved the problem, no?”

“It’s not a solution with the risk of collateral this high!”

“It’s down, and that is what matters.”

“Come on, cowboy,” she hears Kelly say, and watches the feed as she hauls Wallace to his feet. “Break time’s over.”

“Ugh,” Wallace groans. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Just a little longer,” Kelly says, voice softer. “We’re almost there.”

“Prepare to breach the facility, but don’t take any risks you don’t have to,” the Commander says. “Thomas, keep it in your pants and let Moon and Wallace handle the demolition duties. That’s an order.”

“ _Putain de merde,_ ” Thomas mutters.

“ _Je vous comprends,_ ” she retorts. The ranger’s cheeks flush red and she grins, satisfied. 

She takes a moment to watch them, caught in one another’s video feeds: Thomas’s disdain, Moon’s vigilance, Kelly’s gentle concern, and Wallace’s growing fear. She forces herself to swallow the growing lump in her throat.  _Not the time_ , she thinks. _You’ve got a job to do and people counting on you to do it._ “Come on, people, let’s go find out what ADVENT has in store for us.”

\--

He waits for her at her office door when she clocks off shift that night.

“Commander.”

“Central.”

“Do you have a minute?”

She nods. “Come in.”

The whole interaction feels like a kind of elaborate kabuki, some grotesque approximation of their relationship.  Even so, it’s a comfort to have him close.

He leans back against the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I have good news, and I have bad news.”

She sinks into her desk chair, trying to get a read on the situation. There is still color in his face, which bodes well, and he does not have the hunched look of a man on the lam. He catches on quickly. “It’s not that bad,” he adds.

“Alright, shoot.”

“We _can_ fake an intrusion, but we’ll need help.”

“You have someone on the outside?”

He shakes his head. “We risk too much if we go out of house.”

“So, we’re cooked.”

He shakes his head. “No, but this op got a lot more risky.”

 “Engineering a hack is _way_ outside my scope of practice.”

“But not Dr. Shen’s.”

She leans back in her chair. “We can’t. He’s got a kid. I can’t ask him to do that.”

“We give him a device entirely isolated from our network. We destroy the hard drive after he’s done.”

“Where do we launch it from?”

“We can proxy it off, make it look like it’s coming from somewhere else.”

 “How do we keep Vahlen off the scent?”

 “That’s the risk.”

“I don’t think she’d turn us in, but ---“  
  
“But, if anyone would use that information for leverage, it’d be her.”

 “Exactly.”

“For the moment, I think you’ve appeased her. She’s got plenty of work on her hands and once she’s involved there. Well. She’s a dedicated professional.”

“Fanatical.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

She shrugs. “I’m just glad there’s enough of an institutional safety net to keep her in check.”

“Harm reduction’s never a bad operating procedure.”

“My policy of choice.” She pulls the elastic from her hair, shaking it loose from its bun. “But, this is your area of expertise. How do we bring Shen in?”

 “Sooner, rather than later. Odd hours. Entirely word of mouth.” 

“Who’s making the ask?’

“Probably easier if it comes from you.”

“Sometime tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here when you need me.”

She chews on her lip. “I can’t believe this is what it’s come to.”

“We made the right call, Lizzie,” he says, with far more certainty than she’s expecting.

Her gaze shoots up. “You’re seem awfully confident in that.”

“Comes with having friends in shady places.”

”If it’s any help, general consensus is the powers that be have no idea what’s going on from our end.”

“Small mercies. Still, I don’t have a good feeling about that call.”

“They’re looking to weaponize the modified SHIV, but that’s not a surprise.”

 “There’s only so much it can do with conventional weaponry. Still, I’ll take that over the alternative.”

“You and me both.”

She buries her face in her hands for a moment, wishing for a little peace and quiet, a few weeks without an emergency. Somehow, she doubts even that would soothe her nerves. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to inbatcountry17 for letting me borrow Weir!


	16. Sixteen

That night, she wakes bolt upright, convinced that something terrible is already at play, that they are behind, so far behind. She tries to rationalize it, tries to tie it to her concerns about the Fog Pods, what Shen and Vahlen’s investigations will yield. That would be sane, sensible, expected.

But it's not the Pods.

She knows there is something, something else. It’s the aliens, of that much she’s certain, but beyond that she can’t quite say, can’t quite remember.

That’s what frightens her.

She sits, and draws slow breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth. _It’s stress_ , she tells herself. _It’s the stress of waiting for the results, of dealing with the Council, of fearing for the worst._

She does not entirely believe it.

She wishes she could go for a walk, shrug on a coat and clear her head in the winter air. There is something about the base that never quite sits right with her; she chalks it up to claustrophobia and the dearth of sunlight, simulation bulbs never quite doing the job she needs them to. In spite of everything that’s come to pass, she’d still like to look up at the starry night sky, gaze up in wonder at lights long snuffed out.

She knows it’s entirely off the table. It would be a security and logistics nightmare, the odds of tripping the perimeter alarm too great. Central would have to be woken up and assigned temporary command, complete with the requisite briefing and debriefing. All told, the entire charade could take more than two hours. It is simply not worth the effort.

Rolling over, she reaches for her datapad, and begins scrolling through the notifications. She opens an email from Weir, and is greeted with an image of a smiling black German Shepherd sitting contentedly in the back seat of a car. She understands the message well enough.

She considers telling him to make good choices, then laughs at the thought. _Might as well tell the sun not to rise,_ she thinks.

 _Be safe_ , she writes. _Give Jane my love. She’ll probably deserve a new toy after this._

She hits send, and returns to scrolling through the headlines. There is nothing unusual, nothing that seems out of place. She is so accustomed to searching, to looking for clues of the next EXALT action, that she realizes she has forgotten what it’s like to scroll without purpose.

She sets the datapad aside and rolls over, burying her head into her pillow and groaning.

 _This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like_ , she thinks. _It was supposed to get easier. I was supposed to remember what it was like to get a good night’s sleep, not still be awake at all godforsaken hours of the night._

 _Don’t be ungrateful,_ she chides herself. _After everything that happened, you’re lucky to be here at all. There’s a thousand things that could have gone wrong, more variables than you’ll ever be able to account for. The odds were stacked against humanity from the start, but you still pulled through. Don’t discount the sacrifices made to get you here._

She’ll be glad when Shen and Vahlen complete their analysis.

\--

She’s not sure what she expected to find once they breached the facility, but it was definitely not this. 

Row after row of glass pods, stacked five high, containing human bodies in varying stages of disintegration are lowered into an enormous vat of green ooze. When they rise again, they are empty.

“Jesus,” Central gasps.

“What … in the …”

“Some kind of weapons testing?” Tygan offers.

“Looks more like a refinery to me,” counters Shen.

She begins to fidget, picking at the cuticles of her thumb.

The team advances, but the facility is strangely empty.

“They were never expecting us to find this,” she says softly. “They were never expecting _anyone_ to find this.”

“The bodies … the trains …” Central says, trying to form words in the face of the gruesome sight before them. “They’re processing at an industrial scale.”

“But what do they get from it? Human bodies aren’t … you can’t slurry out their component elements, can you, Doctor?”

“Not like this,” Tygan says.

She watches Lily’s gaze harden, the engineer’s eyes growing suspicious. “Not like _this_?”

“This is butchery, not precision.”

“Commander!” Moon calls. “I have visual confirmation on … some kind of canister.”

“Shen, any readings off of it?”

“Not picking up any energy signatures. It should be safe to handle.

“Moon, do whatever it takes to secure it. This whole exercise has been for nothing if we can’t get it back here.”

“Commander,” Kelly says, “think we’ve got movement on the other side of this wall.”

“Wallace, you’ve still got a grenade on you, yeah? If you aim for the wall, is everyone clear of the debris field and still in cover?"

“Yeah, the radius won’t be that big.”

“Good. Do it.”

She can feel Central’s gaze on her.

“What?” She asks, looking up at him. “It’s the fastest way to the evac point.”

In the background, the facility’s wall shatters, killing a trooper that had been taking cover behind it. A Viper and Stun Lancer advance, eager to take payment for their loss in kind.

“Kelly, take the Lancer out. Thomas, focus on the Viper. Moon, grab the canister.”

Kelly’s shot rings true, striking the Lancer clear in the chest, while the Viper dodges the worst of Thomas’s. Wallace creeps forward, his injured leg slowing him, sticking to high cover. Moon grabs the canister, then presses himself flat against the wall. The Viper rears back and unhinges its jaw, its tongue flying towards Thomas, dragging him into the Viper’s grasp.

“Wallace, Moon, keep moving towards evac. Kelly, do what you can to get Thomas out of that bind.” She realizes too late what she has said. “Pun not intended.”

Moon and Wallace make their way out of the facility, towards the nearby rocky outcropping, illuminated with a flare. Kelly runs and takes a flying leap, bringing her sword down on the alien’s head. Its grip slackens, and Thomas pulls himself free, then fires at his former captor. Green blood splatters on the ground as the alien falls dead.

“Menace, you’ve got dropship signatures inbound. Get out of there!” Central says, eyes flicking between body cam footage and the Avenger’s long range radar.

The four operatives scramble to the evac point, Moon and Kelly half-hauling Wallace up the terrain. Ropes drop from the unseen Skyranger, ready to lift the team to safety.

“Package is secure and all XCOM operatives are on-board. Firebrand returning to base.”

“Good work, team,” she says, voice warm. “Mission accomplished.”

\--

She catches Shen on the way to the Mess Hall sometime after noon, and arranges a meeting, then passes the information to Bradford while breezing through Mission Control. At the appointed time, they gather in her office. Shen sits across the desk from her, and Central leans against the door.

“This conversation never happened,” she begins, feeling entirely too much like a spy in a terrible action movie, the stereotype of the Man –or, in her case, Woman– In Black.

Shen looks from her to Central, and back again. “Understood, Commander.”

“We have reason to believe the Council’s support of the XCOM project as it stands is in jeopardy,” Bradford says from his position.

“Aren’t we guaranteed funding for the six month period following final contact?”

“We are,” she says, “but not in any set amount.”

“They have to understand that we are in the midst of research on the ---“

“They don’t know about that.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her gaze shifts to Central. “We … The Council denied our request for the Pods.”

“Then, how did they get here?”

“We have ways.” Central offers.

Shen looks to Central, then back to the Commander. “My, my. You two have been busy, I see.”

She nods. “It’s been … an interesting turn of events.”

“To put it mildly. But, why bring me in?”

“We need your help, Doctor,” Central says.

“But we understand if it’s something you can’t give.”

“What do you need?”

“We need to fake a system intrusion.”

“Into?’

“Mission footage, security, AARs, autopsies, things of that nature.”

The Chief Engineer nods, contemplating. “It’s certainly doable, but why?”

“Sorry, Doctor, but we can’t tell you. If this blows up, I’d prefer to minimize the collateral. I had concerns about involving you in the first place.”

“Well, this certainly explains the change in behavior between you two. I was beginning to suspect there had been some kind of falling out. I see now that it was just cloak and dagger.”

“What change in behavior?” Central asks, letting slip his professional façade.

“Until recently, you two were never far from one another’s orbit.”

She flushes.

Bradford flounders for a moment before he regains his composure. “I’m sure you can understand our caution.” 

“Who else knows about this?”

“Within XCOM, everyone in the know is in this room,” she says.

“There’s a handful of people externally who have some inkling, but no specifics,” Central offers.

Shen considers this for a moment. “What are you planning to do about Doctor Vahlen?’

“Keep her focused on her research, I hope.”

“We have concerns,” Central says.

“That is … probably wise. I’ll see to it that you get you what you need.”

 “We can get you a device isolated from the network with a removable drive. After you’ve finished, we’ll wipe the device and destroy the drive. There should be no evidence.”

He nods. “I’ll see to it.” 

“Our thanks, Doctor,” Central says. “Commander, I’ll be in Mission Control.”

“Understood.” She watches him turn and leave, her gaze lingering perhaps a moment too long.

“Commander,” Shen says, drawing her back to the task at hand. “Light may supersede sound, but words travel faster than longing gazes.”

She gapes, turning her attention back to her Chief Engineer. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doctor.”

He offers her a wry grin. “Of course, Commander. The only thing more terrifying than aliens in the base is emotional honesty with oneself. I understand.”

“I am perfectly honest with myself.”

He rises from his seat, eying her over his glasses, mischief glinting down at her. “The size of the pool among my men would stun you.”

“Triple digits?” She asks.

“Of course not, Commander. It has been a long nine months: quadruple.”

\--

The mood on board is hardly jubilant, but there is a general ssense of satisfaction, of a job done well. Wallace will be out of the field for a week while his wounds heal, but the rest of Menace stands ready for action.

They put down for the night halfway to Lagos, way out in the fields of the Spanish countryside. The wounded join the well around a small fire, quiet chatter filling the air. Moon sets a bowl of salad gently on Krieger’s lap, encouraging her to eat. Zaytsev and Thomas sit with some of Shen’s engineers, engaging in some kind of card game, while Tygan and his scientists review briefing data.

They all seem relieved to be free of the ship.

Central disappears again, and Jane holds Sally back from giving chase, a single hand on the shoulder all that’s needed. When he reappears, stumbling back towards the ship, the task takes considerably more effort.

“I’ll go keep an eye on him,” the Commander says. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“Tell him he’s an ass,” Royston says, though there’s more hurt in her voice than genuine anger.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take the advice, Sal,” she says gently. “I’d like not to have another incident.”

“Not to be insubordinate, ma’am,” Wallace says. “But I think I speak for everyone when I say that we _also_ would prefer it if you two didn’t have another incident.”

She chuckles. “Noted, Wallace. I’ll see you all inside.” 

She finds Central exactly where she has come to expect, slumped over, head on folded arms.

She crosses behind the bar, and takes a glass from the shelf, filling it with cold water and setting it in front of him. “Drink this,” she says. “You’re gonna need it.”

He picks his head up enough to look at her before setting it down again. “Done enough drinkin’.”

She nods. “I agree. Which is why you should have that instead. I’d offer to make you toast, but---”

“You’d set the whole damn ship on fire,” he slurs.

“I’d say I’m offended, but you’re probably right. Besides, I don’t think we have any bread.”

“No toaster.”

“Central, people made toast before toasters.”

“Light the bread on fire.”

“Melt one tea kettle and you never live it down.”

He looks up at her, eyes bloodshot. “It’s too much. Doesn’t stop.”

“It will,” she nods. “We’ll make them stop.”

For a moment, she almost believes herself.

 

He shakes his head at her, then groans, setting it back down.

 

She nudges the glass of water towards him. “Come on,” she says. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”


	17. Seventeen

There are many situations that trainings and meetings and countless simulations have left her inadequately prepared to handle. The mass mind control of a group of military personnel, blunt force trauma to the back of the head from a particularly determined Muton, and her subsequent twenty year tenure as a computer of flesh and blood and grey matter are certainly on the list, however, it is still funerals that find her at the greatest loss.

Gunda’s partners, Ibrahim and Kehinde, are gracious in their grief, affording her a warmth she wishes they wouldn’t. _I’m the reason she’s not here,_ she wants to say. _I don’t deserve your kindness._

They gather with the her friends and family around a bonfire, and tell stories of the late sniper, of her jokes and her smile, of her optimism and hope, her belief that dawn was coming, that ADVENT could not stand forever. She meets a different Gunda that night, her ghost suffusing every memory brought back to life through its speaking. She meets Gunda, the little girl who learned too late the dangers of bubble gum bubbles half the size of one’s face; Gunda, the mother who still managed to make birthdays something to celebrate, even in the face of famine; Gunda, the partner, who found ways to hold her family together even as they fled from one destroyed haven to another one likely to meet the same fate. She meets the woman who believed the greatest gift she could offer her son was a world without fear of death in the night, without starvation and with a little less want, with the chance to build a life free from the knowledge that someone, something, would always be watching. 

She’s not sure if it makes burial the next day better or worse.

“Ma’am,” Krieger approaches her afterward. “Can I have a minute?" 

“Of course,” she nods. “What’s up?”

“Ma’am … I think I’d like to stay here. They’re out a medical provider and I don’t know where they’d get one. I know you have Zaytsev and Tygan, and you’ll train someone else. You’ll find the right person. These people don’t have that luxury. And,” she adds quietly. “I don’t think I’d be much use on the field these days. It just. It was so random. It came out of nowhere. I close my eyes and I see that thing, charging at her. It looks different every time. At first, it was just random faces, but it’s different now. Now, it’s people I know, people I knew. And the dream always ends the same. “

“I hate to lose you. You’re a good medic, and you handle yourself well. But, if this is where you feel you belong, then this is where you should stay. We’ll make sure we add you onto our supply runs, and you know you can always radio. On the ship or off, you’re still one of us.“

“Thanks, ma’am. Should I---“  
  
“I’ll handle Central. Go make whatever arrangements you need to.”

Watching Krieger head towards the ship, it dawns on her that she’s not actually sure where her second-in-command is.

\--

Four days before Christmas, she finds herself in the conference room off the labs listening in mute panic as XCOM’s Chief Scientist and Engineer present their initial findings.

“Physically, the Pods bear more than an a passing resemblance to the MELD canisters we’ve previously encountered with the difference of several key components.”

The image on the screen changes to a cut-away of the device’s interior. “Inside, we have a self-sustaining source powering a receiver and transmitter.”

“The energy spikes…” Central says, quietly.

“Precisely.”

She feels as if someone has just poured ice down the back of her shirt. Sometimes, she hates being right.

“And the gas they emit?”

“Samples again indicate a strong similarity to the MELD compound,” Vahlen explains. “Once again, we detected a high concentration of cybernetic nanomachines, similar to, yet distinct from what we had previously seen. Given the similarities, however, I strongly suspect this compound too carries mutagenic properties.”

“Suspect?” Central asks.

“Despite the combined efforts of our teams,” Shen cuts in, “we were unable to produce a response from the machines. They seem to be in some kind of dormant state, unresponsive to any of the external stimuli we applied.”

The Commander runs a hand through her hair. “Could you speculate on their purpose?”

“Not without additional data and experiments,” Vahlen answers.

“And on its effect on those exposed?”

“Samples we tested yielded positive proof of presence in the blood of the exposed, though the concentration varied wildly for reasons as yet unknown.” 

“Have you tested our people, Doctor?” Central asks.

“Not yet. I was about to ask for permission to do so.”

She nods. “I won’t order anyone, but you’re welcome to make the ask.”

“Commander, I---“  
  
“Doctor, if you find your self at a loss for volunteers, I’ll revisit the decision.”

“Very well,” she says, her voice clipped.

“Doctor Shen,” Central pivots, looking to defuse the situation. “Any idea on what purpose the transmitter and receiver serve?”

“Communication, but between what is a mystery. Device to device, device to machine, device to an outside controller: it’s too early to say with any confidence.”

“Can it be disabled?”

“I suspect so, but would not recommend that route until we obtain a clearer sense of what purpose it serves.”

“Anything else to report?”  
  
“I would advise caution, Commander,” Shen says. “These Fog Pods don’t contain the self-destruct mechanisms we’ve come to expect with alien tech. If we learned anything about the invaders, it’s that they are nothing if not calculating.”

“In other words,” she sighs. “You don’t think this is coincidence”

“I somehow doubt they were concerned with the preservation of life.”

“I agree with that assessment. Get me a list of what other resources you’ll need to continue your work. I’ll do what I can to make it happen.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Shen says.

Vahlen merely nods.

“Please pass my thanks on to your teams as well. I know it’s been a hard journey for them, but we’re not done yet. Dismissed.”

\--

She has always hated the sea. She does not like the beach, finds the roar of ocean waves unsettling, and despises the inescapability of sand, its pernicious ability to congregate in the areas she would rather went unmolested.

But Central? Central has always loved the ocean.

She’s not at all surprised to find him there on the shore, staring out towards the horizon. 

“Hey,” she says.

“Didn’t think you were a fan of beaches.”

“I had a feeling that if I wanted to talk to you, this was the best place to look.”

“Optimistic assessment.”

She shakes her head. “You never turned down a shot at the water. Couldn’t imagine that’d changed.”

He shrugs. “About the other night … what I said…”

“It was true.”

“You wouldn’t set the ship on fire.”

“I have something of a reputation.”

“Just didn’t want you to think I was looking for a fight.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t take it like that.”

“Good.”

“I have news, though, you’re not gonna like it.”

“How does today get worse?”

“Krieger’s leaving.”

He pinches the Bridge of his nose. “She and Gunda were close. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ll do what I can about new blood.”

“I know,” she says, gently. “I don’t doubt that.”

His hand drops to his side. “Jesus. I thought this would be easier by now.”

“What? The war?”

“The war, the ship, you, me, everything. This wasn’t how I pictured it going. Half the time, you and I are still on eggshells with each other.” His shoulders droop, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Regan. I’m just tired.”

It occurs to her that, despite the name and the face, the voice and the vernacular, she does not know the man in front of her at all. There is a twenty year chasm between the John Bradford she knew and the one who stands before her, twenty years of loss and hardship, twenty years of watching others die. She is still unsure of how to approach this man who dulls everything with a drink, who watches the world around him with hollow eyes.

But, she knows what she would have done for his counterpart.

It’s a terrible idea. At best, it won’t work, and at worst, it will aggravate the situation. Life is not a movie, and feelings are not neatly wrapped up with a bow and they don’t include a troubleshooting guide for when everything’s fallen apart.

She is at a loss for a better course of action.

She rolls up onto her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, catching him in a hug. He freezes for a moment, shocked by the sudden contact, then settles into her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Her home is gone, along with the people she once knew. She is weary and battered, and despite the best efforts of those around her, more alone than she has ever felt in her life. She doesn’t know what to do for the man in her arms, doesn’t know what to offer him. In truth, she doubts that anything would really help.

But he is her last link, her last living proof of the life that was once hers. She owes it to him to try.

He doesn’t let go.                        

\--

“Merry Christmas, have a _fucking_ bioweapon,” she groans.

They are in her office, picking at a container of fries.

“Nothing’s confirmed yet.”

This is not how she had envisioned her holiday season going.

“There’s no other explanation that makes sense.” She shakes her head. “You know, I really thought we’d be home for Christmas.”

“You thought it’d be quick?”

“I never thought we’d be activated, honestly. Not for this, in any case.”

“Hoping for the Gene Roddenberry variety of first contact?”

“Nah,” she shakes her head. “I never thought it’d be aliens at all.”

“What’d you think they’d pull us in on, then?”

“Terrorism, honestly. Isn’t that what everything eventually gets thrown toward?”

He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Fair. Where are your folks spending the holiday?”

“Rome. They’ve got a few more postings in them before they head back stateside. How about your mom?”

“Florida,” he says, dipping a fry into ketchup. “St. Augustine. With my aunt.”

“Got tired of Midwestern winters?”

“She always hated them, even when I was a kid.”

“Patient lady.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“I keep thinking about them, you know. My folks. Your mom. Everybody out there. They’ve got no idea this is coming.”

“Regan, even we don’t know what’s coming.”

“We should do something. Give them some kind of warning.”

“Until we know what those _things_ do, we don’t have much of a warning to give.”

“But, if we could talk to the WHO, or some of the larger governmental health bodies, we might have more hands on deck.”

“At best, we’d be ignored; at worst, we’d incite a panic. You really wanna see quarantine zones set up and people herded into them?”

She shakes her head. “No, I just … it’s been taunting us for months, and now it’s gonna taunt us some more. I’m tired of running to catch up. I’m tired of watching people die because I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Woah,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Last time I looked, you’re not the one running the labs. And again, last time I checked, they’re on the same round the clock shift schedule we are. We’re doing what we can.”

“But I wasn’t fast enough catching it.”

“You didn’t know what you were looking for.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t have a clue. Now, we’re here."  
  
“We’ve got time. Shen and Vahlen still have things to try. We’re not seeing panic in the streets.”

“Yet.”

“Lizzie, you can’t let this eat you.”

“I’m the one who was supposed to catch this. A bioweapon? Come on, John. It’s why I was brought on in the first place.”

“You didn’t have proof, and we didn’t have time to look into it. “

“And if we had?”

He shakes his head. “We’re not going there; we’re not playing ‘what if.’ I’m not going to let you beat yourself up for making the right call.” 

“But, what if ---"  
  
“Lizzie, you got us this far. No one here forgets that. You shouldn’t either.” He reaches for her hand, catching it in his, and interrupting her quest to bloody her cuticle. “We caught it. We’ll stop it.”

"Do you remember was it was like not to be living on edge?"

"Not anymore. But I've got pretty good company out here."

She smiles at him. "Yeah, me too."


	18. Eighteen

Central argues with a man on the viewscreen as she dismounts the stairs from her quarters to the Bridge. Behind him, Sally and Kelly exchange what she suspects are meant to be surreptitious looks. They are about as subtle as a clown in day glo face paint. She raises her eyebrows at them, waiting for them to realize their error. Sally spots her first, and offers her a broad grin in response.

It occurs to her that she may not be quite as fearsome as she hopes.

 _Strike One had their fair share of chuckles, too_ , she reminds herself. _Would you rather be the person the crew feels safe to talk freely with, or the one who demands their respect for no reason other than your rank?_

There is no contest in her mind.

“I’m not exactly having drinks with them!” Central proclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “And they did keep their end of the bargain.”

“He’s wasting his breath,” Sally mutters. “This conversation never goes anywhere.”  
  
“What’s going on?"

“Drunk diplomacy.”

She turns, eyeing Central. “He seems sober enough.”

“Yeah, for now.”

She looks to Jane, hoping for some kind of explanation.

“The Reapers make the closest thing you can get to vodka,” she says.

“And Central can’t turn it down,” Sally adds. “The benders are legendary.”

“Oh, good.”

“Volk’s requesting an in-person meet and greet,” Kelly explains. “He thinks it’s high time he met you.”

“ _He_ thinks it’s high time?"

“Volk’s a character,” Sally shrugs. “He runs a decent org, but. You’ll see.”

“I’m filled with confidence.”

“He’s not … okay, yeah. He is that bad.”

The screen cuts to black. “Commander,” Central says, turning his attention to her. “That was Konstantin Volikov, head of the Reapers. His people helped get you out. He’s requesting a meeting.”

She nods. “Does he have a place in mind?”

“Their turf. Northwestern US." 

“Can they be trusted?”

“They’ve got no love for ADVENT.”

She considers this for a moment. “Let’s get going, then. Any word on new recruits?”

“We’ve got energy signatures from the north central US,” Kelly answers. “It might be worth it to stop and make contact if we can spare the time.”

“Central?” The Commander asks.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Slowly, life has begun the trek towards normalcy. Thomas’s tactless jokes have made a return, as well as the near-nightly card games. Zaytsev is almost ready to return to duty, and Shen’s team is hard at work on some new idea. Despite everything that has happened, and everything that is yet to come, life moves along.

There is still one thing that lingers in her mind, though, a thought from their time on the beach that she can’t shake. They had stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for longer than they’d really needed, longer than they really should have. For all that he is not the John Bradford she once knew, he is close enough to reignite the old ache in her chest.

 _Stop it,_ she tells herself. _You’re just stressed. Stressed and touch-starved. You barely know him._

 _But you could_ get _to know him again. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?_ Another part of her brain counters.

 _He made his feelings abundantly clear_ , she reminds herself. _Even if he trusts you, it’s a far cry from where you were._ The memory of his accusation weighs heavy in her stomach. _You’ve finally made some progress. Don’t fuck it up because you’re needy._

\--

Her shift has been quiet thus far, a handful of energy spikes, but nothing unusual. Someone is playing NORAD’s Santa tracker updates over the PA, reminding one and all that it is holiday time and they are all still here, underground and far from the ones they love. It is not how she would have chosen to spend her Christmas Eve.

Picking up her datapad, she scrolls through the pictures that her parents sent, a beautiful tree in the main room of their apartment in Rome, delicious baked goods from the pastry shops, and their smiling faces. It is the first Christmas she’ll spend away from them, a reality she had never anticipated when she’d accepted the position. All the cheery -- distinctly non-regulation -- string lights, trees, menorahs, and snowmen don’t make up for the knowledge that she should be with her family.

It’s not a train of thought she can let herself linger on. The dearth of real light in the base already plays havoc with her if she lets her guard down. She doesn’t need to add to the discontent already simmering beneath her skin.

 _Happy thoughts,_ she reminds herself. _Happy thoughts_. _The Council was pleased with the SHIV report, and there’s talk of additional research funding being allocated. She seemed confident enough in his ability to falsify the intrusion. We might just make it through after all._

All of a sudden, the Hologlobe flickers and the power dims. Bile rises in her throat, and she reaches for the gun in her shoulder holster. _We haven’t had any hostile contact. There’s no way they could surprise us again. We hit them hard. We knocked their ship out of_ existence. _It has to be over._

“Central?” She says, pressing a finger to the comm link in her ear. “Shen? Vahlen?"

Nothing.

The globe bursts back to life, along with the terminals and other electrical systems.

Except the comms.

Except their internal monitoring.

They are operating in the blind. It’s as if all of her very worst nightmares have come to pass.

The door connecting Mission Control to the Armory slides open and she tenses, bracing for the worse. Instead she is greeted by two-fifths of Strike One, weapons in hand.

“What was that?” Hershel calls from her position. “Do we have a breach?”

“Unknown.”

“Unknown?”

“You heard me. We’ve got no internal monitoring.”

“I knew comms were down, but feeds too?”

“Far as anyone can tell.” She does not like this. “You two know where Molchetti, Bernard, and Martin are?  You know, in case we _do_ have a problem.”

“Edouard was in the Infirmary last I knew, working with some of last week’s training injuries,” Royston offers. “I’d assume he’s still there.”

“Bernard’s still in bed after his little soiree last night,” Hershel adds. “Molchetti was in the Mess.”

“Do we have internal monitoring back?” She asks the room.

“No, ma’am,” comes the chorus of replies.

“Shit.”

Her datapad buzzes. _What the hell happened?_ Central’s message reads.

 _Trying to figure that out_ , she types back. _Hoping it’s not a breach, but can’t confirm._

_Can’t confirm?_

_No internal feed._

“Castiglione, Hollis,” she begins. “Head for Engineering. Grab Dr. Shen and bring him back. Williamson, Moreau, go to the labs and find Dr. Vahlen. Everyone else, do what you can to get us back up.”

She unpins her hair and runs a hand through it. _We just had a major power disruption, we’re operating in the blind, and we have no comms. How does this get worse?_

There is a sudden _crash_ from somewhere underneath them.

\--  
It’s an uneventful morning. The weather is good for flying and they remain far enough out of the way to avoid any ADVENT patrols.

She does what she can to feel useful.

She updates the inventory on guns and supplies, checks in with Shen’s team on their armor prototypes, and visits Tygan in his lab. She collects the beer bottles from around the quarters, and empties out the ash trays, making a mental note to _do something_ about the crew’s smoking on board.

Time stretches out in front of her.

She misses having something to do. Yes, there is planning and strategizing, but at the moment, they _have_ a plan, one they are working to execute as quickly as possible. Her quarters are clean, the crew quarters are cleaner, and she is at a loss.

She misses having practical distractions, some small task to eat at the idle minutes. She’d always had knitting or sewing or a book to read. Even during the Invasion, she’d kept a stash of yarn and needles, something to do on the late nights when sleep remained solidly out of her grasp.

She misses the internet, misses the convenience of streaming movies and her enormous music collection. Reddit wasn’t always the wisest place to spend her time, but it was a reliable distraction. Now, she has nothing.

She knows she could watch the ADVENT feed, try to glean something useful about their enemy. Her tolerance for propaganda has always been low, but her tolerance for boredom is even worse.

She dangles backwards off her couch like some petulant teenager, legs hooked over the backrest.

It makes for an awkward moment of rearranging when the knock comes at her door. “In!” She calls. 

Sally stands in the doorway with what looks like an old laptop in her arms. “Is that really how people sat on the couch before the Invasion, ma’am?”

“If you can’t treat the couch like a jungle gym, then what’s the point?”

“Jungle gym?”

“You know … like …  slide, monkey bars, climbing things?”

“ _Maman_ was always too nervous to let me near one. Not enough cover.“

“Sounds like your mom. What do you need?”

She offers the device to the Commander. “Central says you’re making him nervous.”

She takes the computer, and quirks an eyebrow. “He sent you to bring me a laptop?”

“One of the Resistance side projects: salvaging old media. There’s a lot on there.”

“Old media?”

“Movies, tv shows, things like that. We used to get what we could in the bigger havens.”

“When you say old…”

“I didn’t see five seasons of The Twilight Zone because ADVENT was broadcasting it.”

“So, when you start yelling about ‘it’s a cookbook’ when he gives the ‘don’t eat the ADVENT meat rations’ speech, it _is_ because you get the reference, then.“

“Central did what he could to make sure I wasn’t totally illiterate in the field of ‘we were warned.’”

She chuckles. “Sounds about right. I used to call Chryssalids ‘chestbusters’ for the same reason.”

“That one I’ve heard.”

She shakes her head fondly. “Thanks. And pass it on to him, too.”

Sally offers her a half-salute and heads back for her station on the Bridge. The Commander returns to her prior position, opening the laptop and setting it up against her legs.

 _He’s still there, underneath everything_ , she tells herself, and boots up the device.

\--

They have identified the source of the outage: a coordinated power spike from two of the Fog Pods in their possession.

They still have no comms, and no internal sensors. They have resorted to sending teams through the base to manually search for incursions, keeping in contact via walke-talkie.

She has seen this movie before; she does not like how it ends.

They have also identified the source of the earlier ruckus. A game of _Twilight Struggle_ had grown too heated and, apparently inspired by the spirit of Nikita Kruschev banging his shoe, one competitor had flipped not only the pieces, but the table itself at his challenger. She’s not sure if she should be relieved, or concerned.

“Shen says the system’s been completely fried, “ Central says, coming up alongside her. “We’ll need to replace everything.”

She blinks up at him. “What?”

He nods.

“We can’t repair it?"

“No, ma’am.”

“Can I see you in my office for a moment?”

She waits until they are safely ensconced before opening her mouth.

“What are we gonna do? We can’t go to the Council without blowing our cover, but we can’t operate in the blind.”

“We don’t have to tell them where it came from. We can tell them we’re investigating the source.”

“But if they already know? If they’ve just been waiting to catch us?”

“There’s nothing to indicate that they know.”

“But if they do?”

“We don’t have a lot of choices.”

She chews at the cuticle of her thumb. “How long can we operate in the blind?”  
  
“There’s a big difference between can and should.”

“Can.”

“There’s no physical impediment, but if we’re hit again, we won’t know until they’re banging down the door to Mission Control. We won’t be able to coordinate a response. Nothing.”

He’s not telling her anything she doesn’t already know. The logic is sound, borne out in past experience. Even so, she wishes she could argue.

“Hey,” he says, gently taking her hand from her mouth. “We’re gonna be okay. We were hit with an energy spike of unknown origin, our comms and internal sensors were knocked out, and we need assistance to repair them. There’s nothing untruthful in that statement.”

“We _do_ know the source.”

He shrugs. “Alright, it’s a little untruthful.”

She swallows hard. “I should get it over with. Here’s to Christmas Eve with a dash of mortal terror.”

“Come here, “ he says, pulling her into a hug. She settles against him, tired and terrified, and tries to ground herself in the moment.

“I’m not letting anything happen to you,” he tells her, rubbing slow circles on her back.

“It’s not just me I’m worried about.”


	19. Nineteen

They set down somewhere in what she’s fairly certain used to be North Dakota, leaving a crate of supplies, a note, and a transponder near where Kelly last registered signs of life. It’s a hope and a prayer, but for now, it will have to do.

She’s at something of a loss for the meeting. She hates going in unprepared, but neither Shen nor Tygan have had any direct experience with Volk, and Sally’s accounts are every bit as colored by booze as Central’s, albeit in a very different fashion. The archive offers her the most basic of details, but it’s hardly the kind of substantial dossier she’d hope for.  She is already at a disadvantage; she’d prefer not to call attention to the fact.

Volk is already looking to position himself above her in dealings of power. Setting the meeting on his own time in his own territory sends a clear message, and it’s one she doesn’t like.

The Council used to like making them grovel. It would leave them dangling, begging for funds as they rushed to build whatever they could to counter the growing threat. She’d implore them for extra funds, the money they’d need to push for better weapons and armor, to build new Interceptors as existing ships were reduced to heaps of slag by alien weaponry.

It hadn’t ended well for any of them.

“And the best thing, the very best thing of all,” Burgess Meredith’s voice sounds from the laptop, “is there’s time now. There’s all the time I need, and all the time I want. Time, time, time. There’s time enough at last.” 

She has many regrets from the Invasion. Not telling the Council exactly where they could shove their condescending false sympathy certainly ranks high, but there are other things, too. If she could have seen what was coming, if she could have read the writing on the wall, she would have made different choices. She’d have cleared the base, sent the scientists and engineers home, given the men orders to get out of history’s way and find somewhere safe and quiet to say what goodbyes they’d need to.  She wouldn’t have condemned them watching in horror as the base was reduced to rubble by an alien menace they’d never truly stood a chance against.

They were good people; they’d deserved better.

On the laptop screen, the glasses fall from his face, the lenses shattering to bits against ruined concrete.

“That’s not fair,” he warbles. “That’s not fair at all!”

She feels some mixture of laughter and revulsion crawling up from her stomach. _No, Mr. Meredith_ , she thinks. _It’s not. It’s never been._

Someone knocks at her door.

“In!” She calls.

Sally stands in the doorway.” Tall, dark, and grumpy says we’re about an hour out.”

“Why do you look so nervous?”

She swallows. “He doesn’t drink when he flies.”

“I would hope not.”

She shakes her head. “Take the drunk off the bottle and they get nasty.”

She pats the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go handle him.”

“Wait, no, I should---”

“Sally.”

“Ma’am.”

“Let me deal with him. That’s an order.”

\--

She can practically feel the noose hanging around her neck as she stands before the Spokesman.

“You say the source was … _unknown_ , Commander?”

She nods. “As of yet, my team has been unable to pinpoint an exact origin. At the time of outage, we’ve registered several simultaneous spikes.”

“It is somewhat _unusual_ , Commander, for your organization to come to us with such a _nebulous_ explanation.”

 _They know_ , she thinks. _They know, and now they’re toying with us._

“I would have waited until we had a more complete report, Mr. Spokesman, but given that we are operating in the blind, and given the history of an incursion into the base, I couldn’t take that chance. My people took on manual patrols to ensure we were still secure --- if something had breached our defenses, we would have been at a serious disadvantage.”

“I see.”

“Dr. Shen and his team have done everything in their power to reboot and reset the system themselves. His assessment is that a complete reconstruction is necessary; internal monitoring is a total loss.”

“And has Dr. Shen been able to speculate on a cause for the destruction?”

Her hands are shaking.

“Not as of yet. As per my instructions, his team has been focused on assessing the damage and the odds of repair. Everyone here is, understandably, on edge about the whole situation.”

“I will relay your request, Commander, but the Council will not be pleased.”

 _As if_ we _are_ , she thinks, bitterly. “My thanks, Mr. Spokesman.”

“We will be in touch.”

She pulls out a chair from the conference table, and sinks into it, resting her head in her hands. She is certain they know. She doesn’t know what they hope to gain in dragging it out, in refusing to be upfront, but she is certain they have all the evidence they need, that they’ve intercepted some, if not all, of their communications.

She looks up to watch the clock strike midnight. _Merry Christmas. Good luck enjoying it._

Someone knocks at the door.

“In!” She calls.

Central’s tie is missing and the buttons of his shirt sleeves are undone, poking out from an old Naval Academy sweatshirt.

“And?” He asks, after he’s certain the door’s shut.

“They know,” she says, her throat dry. “I’m sure of it.”

“What’d they say?”

“It wasn’t so much the what as the how.”

“Commander,” he says, kneeling in front of her.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

“Elizabeth,” he says, taking her hands. “Lizzie, look at me. It’s not hard proof. It’s been a long day. We all read too much into things sometimes.”

She shakes her head, wishing she could make him understand.

“Okay,” he says, standing and then tugging her to her feet. He pulls her in close, resting one hand on her back and the other in her hair. “You made me promise that, if I ever had concerns, I’d say something. This is me saying something.”

“Having me declared unfit won’t shake them.”

“This has nothing to do with them, and everything to do with you. It doesn’t help anyone if you go to pieces.”

She settles against him. “What are you gonna do?”

“You’re gonna brief me on whatever you need to, and then you’re going to bed with a migraine for the next day or so.”

“I don’t know how much that’s gonna help.”

“It’ll give me a read on what’s going on for myself.”

“You don’t trust me,” she says, looking up at him.

He shakes his head.  “Trust, but verify.”

“I hate Reagan.”

He chuckles in spite of himself. “And Henry Kissinger. I know.”

“So, what?” She asks. “Do I just kill time in my bunk?”

“Never said it had to be _your_ bunk.”

\--

They are somewhere in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest.

She is bundled into layer upon layer of clothing, but the cold still cuts right through.  She can see her breath in the night air, hanging like a small cloud before her. Next to her, Central crosses his arms tighter across his chest, then takes a drink from his flask.

“I never thought I would miss diplomatic events,” she offers, hoping to defuse some of the tension.

“You just miss having them in a heated venue.”

 “Guilty as charged. Is this _always_ how they do things?”

“Until a few weeks ago, they didn’t really believe you existed. They’re cautious. It’s how they’ve survived.”

“I’m cautious, too, and yet, here we are leaving ourselves open to be shot.”

“They won’t let that happen.”

“Not to you.”

He doesn’t disagree.

She shivers. She’s always hated these last death throes of winter.

“There’s one thing I should warn you about,” he says, taking another nip off the flask.

 “Oh?”

“The Reapers have an … interesting diet.”

“Cannibals?”

His face twists. “Not generally, but the early years were hard.”

“Did you …?”

He takes another sip from the flask. “Not enough liquor in the world to make that palatable.”

She nods. “So. This diet of theirs…”

“Aliens.”

“They eat … the aliens?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it a dominance thing?”

He shrugs. “Maybe? Mostly it’s a lack of beef.”

“You can’t tell me Sectoid tastes like cheeseburger.”

“Do you even know what cheeseburger tastes like?”

She shakes her head. “It’s been … fourteen in my timeframe, add twenty … thirty four years since I had a burger? So, probably not.”

“That’s about what I thought,” he takes another drink.

“You know what they taste like, though.”

“I don’t partake.”

“Is there a way to gracefully get out of partaking?”

“I’ve already made your excuses for you.”

“How?”

“To hefty disbelief.”

Something rustles in the brush, and her hand reaches for the pistol on her hip. Next to her, he takes a final drink and pockets his flask.

Slowly, five gas-mask clad figures emerge, each with a rifle slung over their shoulder. She watches Central from the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction. His face remains unchanged.

One figure approaches, removing its mask. “Bradford.”

“Outrider.”

“A little early for the drink, isn’t it?”

“Take it up with Volk, Dragunova. He called this meeting.”

“And you,” she says, turning her attention to the Commander. “You must be the one we’ve heard so much about.”

Her gaze flicks to Central, then back to Dragunova. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Dragunova grins. “We’ll make our assessments once we’ve gotten to know you better. Come, you’re expected.”

She slips her mask back over her face, and motions for them to follow. The rest of the figures – other Reapers, she assumes – fall into step around them, a kind of moving shield.

“This standard operating procedure for you?” She asks, picking her way through.

“Our standard operating procedure is not to take meetings. You, Commander Regan, are the exception. Do not make us regret it.”

\--

She feels ridiculous. She is freshly showered, clad in flannel pajamas, hand poised to knock on his door. On the scale of stupid things she has done, this ranks high.

 _Of course he didn’t mean anything by it_ , she tells herself. _He made his decision a long time ago. He set his limits. You need to respect them_.

 _On the other hand,_ she counters. _It_ was _forward, even for Central. He’s not the sort to make that kind of joke._

She concedes she’ll have to ask him herself if she wants the answer.

“Can I impinge?” She asks when he opens the door. “I won’t take up much time.”

“You’re not impinging,” he says, ushering her inside, and closing the door. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a question I need answered.”

“Try me.”

“What you said earlier, did you mean it?”

 “You’re gonna have to elaborate.”

“The bunk comment.”

“That you could use a few days to relax? Yeah, I meant it.”

“No, the other part.”

“What other part?”

“The ‘never said it had to be _your_ bunk.’”

“What d’you think?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s what’s eating at me. That’s why I’m here. I think we _had_ rules, and somewhere along the line, we broke them.”

He gapes at her for a moment. “You mean Berlin.”

“Yeah, I mean Berlin.”

“I was an idiot.”

“No, you had a point.”

“Which lost all validity the second we stopped talking about the theoretical, and started reacting to the practical.”

“No, it didn’t. It was a good point. With everything going on, it’s _still_ a good point.” 

He rubs his forehead. “Permission to speak freely?”

“I’d worry if you didn’t,” she says, furrowing her brow.

“Lizzie, I’m in love with you. Everything else is everything else; it doesn’t matter. I should have known that then. I sure as hell know it now. And if you’re right, if things with the Council blow up in our faces, then it was worth it. You were worth it. And I don’t regret what I did.”

She stares at him for a beat. “You mean that?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I mean it.”

“Okay, good,” she says, closing the small distance between them. “Makes this a lot less awkward.”

She knots one hand in his shirt and brings the other up to his check, catching him in the best kiss she can. He doesn’t hesitate, dropping a hand to her waist to support her, and carding the other through the tangle of her still-damp hair.

 

For the first time in weeks, she feels at peace.


	20. Twenty

She is not someone who necessarily believes in the restorative power of a good night’s rest or good sex. After you’ve rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, after you’ve curled your toes and moaned the name of whoever’s in your bed, you are still inevitably faced with the same problems. Exhaustion creeps back in, endorphins subside, and you’re still stuck in a morass more often than not of your own making.

But goddamn, if John Bradford isn’t doing his best to make her reconsider that position.

Their clothes are still scattered across the small room, and she has no idea where her underwear landed. His boxers are dangerously close to the door, and her pajama top sit haphazardly on a pile of otherwise neatly folded clothes.

 _Santa Claus would be appalled_ , she thinks, snuggling closer to her partner.

He tightens his grip, quietly humming under his breath. She could get used to this; or, she’d like to.

“Marked you up pretty good,” he says, running a finger along her neck, a trail of red marks the whole way down.

“Mmm, pretty sure you’re not in any better shape.”

“No regrets.”

“Just that we don’t have time for round two before your shift starts.”

He rolls over, checking the clock. “Wanna bet?” He asks, curling around her again.

“Bring it on,” she says, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I like a challenge.”

The sheets soon join the mess on the floor.

She spends his shift in bed, re-reading Terry Pratchett, getting up to shower and dress, and load their collective laundry into one of the washing machines.

She tries not to think about the Council, or what awaits them in the New Year. She refuses to let this happiness be fleeting.

“Have a good night, Commander?” Royston grins at her in the Common Room, eying the few marks she’d failed to cover.

Her cheeks flush.

“I’m not gonna say anything; it’s just nice to see you two taking some time for yourselves,” Royston continues. “Guess I don’t have to aim for your head with the flowers after all.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stephanie.”

She shoots her a knowing look. “Central’s in Mission Control with no sweater, but a Christmas scarf around his neck.”

“It _is_ Christmas. He’s feeling festive.”

“If he’s got half the marks you do, he’s got good reason to be.”

She turns a brighter shade of red.

Royston’s face softens. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop. But you should really cover those before Bernard sees. It’ll get around pretty quickly.” She shrugs. “I don’t feel as bad about sticking you too next to each other’s at the wedding now, though. Or, wait,” she pauses. “Did you ---“

“We did more than … Yes.”

“So, you’re …”

“We haven’t confirmed either way.”

“You’re wearing his sweatshirt.”

“I am aware.”

“Uh-huh,” she intones. “Because that’s totally normal behavior between a Commanding and Executive Officer.”

“You’re terrible, you know that?”

“Come on, ma’am. You’d be worried if I couldn’t still joke. Think of it as a Christmas present. But,” she shrugs. “Then again, think you already got a pretty good one.”

“Terrible.”

“But I _can_ keep a secret.”

\--

“There you are,” Volk says, sitting down across the campfire. “XCOM’s legendary Commander. Seems you weren’t just another of John’s fever dreams. Somewhat less intimidating in the flesh than he’s made you out to be.”

“It’s performance, not size, that matters, Volk. But I’m sure you’re well aware of that.”

“There are some in my camp who have doubts, Commander. They have every faith in XCOM itself, but not its Commander.”

“They’re not the ones I need to convince, Volk. Unless, of course, you mean you’re the one with doubts. In which case, I expect you to have the balls to come out and say it.”

“Fine. I don’t think you’re fit to lead.”

“Volk,” Central says, screwing the lid onto his flask.

“John.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not here making a case to be the next head of the Reapers, then,” she says.

“You’re asking me to put some of _my_ people in _your_ hands. Not John’s, _yours._ ”

“You wouldn’t want them in my hands,” Central says.

“There’s _plenty_ I want in your hands,” Volk retorts, staring her dead in the eye.

Central flushes.

She refuses to react; she knows dick-waving when she sees it.

In truth, she can’t bring herself to be surprised; she would have hoped, though, that he’d have had better taste.

“Central handles our logistics and day-to-day operations, not to mention piloting duties” she says, hardly missing a beat. “He’s already tied up in his work.” She loosens the flask from her XO’s grip, opens it, and takes a sip. “You want to negotiate, you’ll do it with me.”

She can play the game, too.

“I’m still not convinced that you can be negotiated _with_ ,” he says. “You spent twenty years helping them.”

She doesn’t balk. _Of course_ , she thinks. _Of course, he said something_. _How could he not have?_

“Volk,” Central cuts in.

“John.”

“Central, it’s fine,” she says, resting a hand on his shoulder. She offers the Reapers’ leader a smile that fails to mask her contempt, then turns her attention back to her second-in-command. “I can see why Volk thinks I’d want to help the bastards who captured me, tortured me, and then forcibly inserted a two inch chip into my head while I was _conscious_. It’s a perfectly reasonable precaution.”

He holds her gaze for a moment, and she can watch the swirl of thoughts beneath the veneer of alcohol. There’s a lot there, a lot he can’t verbalize, a lot she can’t parse. There’s regret behind his eyes, and frustration, something that looks almost like pity, and something else, something she can’t give a name to, something she hasn’t seen since before her capture.

He offers her a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, and takes the flask back from her, closes it, then slips it into his coat pocket.  He turns his attention to the figure across the fire. “Volk, we’re been through enough, right?” 

“Right.”

“You’d say you know me.”

“Maybe better than anyone else in this world.”

“And you trust me.”

“Intimately.”

Central reaches out, covering her hand with his own, giving it a gentle, but firm squeeze. “Good. Then _my_ trust in her should be plenty.”

\--

They are back in his bunk, her head on his chest. Idly, he rubs her back as Richie’s father’s major award crashes to the ground on the laptop screen.

“My dad had one of those,” John says. “Mom made him keep it in the basement.”

“Your father had a _leg lamp_?”

He nods. “Mom hated the damn thing.”

She chuckles.

“I talked with the Council today,” he says, gently.

Her stomach clenches. “And?”

“Lizzie, I don’t think they know.”

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “They weren’t happy about the report, but they’ve agreed to fund our repairs. It’s coming out of next month’s research budget, but we’ll be fully operational again with in the week.”

“They didn’t seem suspicious?”

“No more than usual.”

She nestles against him, fear still eating at her. She tries to remind herself that stress warps perceptions, that it’s possible to read too much into a situation. John comes from intelligence. Reading people is supposed to be part of what he does. She can trust him. He wouldn’t misread the cues.

“And, even if they do,” he says, quietly. “We’re finally in a position to head them off.”

She pushes herself up on one arm. “He did it?”

John nods. “And as of two hours ago, it’s deployed. I’ll report to the Council that we’ve had a systems intrusion in the morning.”

“Oh my god,” she says, quietly. “He really did it.”

“I’d heard chatter from some of the engineers that he seemed like he was focused on something. They all seem to think it’s some sort of refinement to the SHIV.”

“ROV-R?”

He nods. “Something about deploying it for field medic duty.”

“How?”

“Lizzie, that’s not what he was working on.”

“I know, but now I’m wondering if it’s feasible.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure you can ask.”

She settles back against him, and he pulls her close.

She still cannot relax. She has come to accept that this is her new normal, a kind of tension she will never be free from, an expectation that there is always another, heavier shoe to drop.

If this is the price for victory, then so be it. 

“Hey,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We’re gonna be okay. We have a plan. Once we get out in front of this thing, it’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.”

She reaches up, resting a hand against his cheek. “I love you.”

He turns his head, pressing a kiss into her palm . “I love you too.”

\--

They pitch tent and lay out their sleeping gear near one of the campfires. Central sobers up enough to help, then returns to his bottle --- a gesture of good will from Volk himself.

She understands stupid.

She understands self-destructive.

She also understands making a goddamn point.

So, when he kisses her, drunk and needy, she doesn’t stop him.

She should not do this.

She should not.

She shouldn’t be willing to see this as a power play, shouldn’t be willing to take the risk.

It’s not that she doesn’t want him; it’s that she doesn’t want him like this. It’s that whatever passes between them is still often so tenuous, so searching, so fragile that something as monumentally stupid as what they’re about to do may well set them back to where they were, silent and furious.

She loosens the weapons harness from broad, tired shoulders, and holds him close.

She’s not threatened by Volk, not about this, at any rate. Whatever happened in the twenty years she spent in the tank is Central’s own business; he’d never questioned her past, and she’s more than happy to return the favor.

His hands are warm against her skin and surprisingly gentle despite their insistence.

She doesn’t doubt his loyalty. There are glimpses of the man she once knew, flashes that emerge from a haze of grief and booze, enough to make her believe he is still there. They are getting more frequent. When she kisses him, she can almost make out what might have been.

It still stings.

Here they are, though, at a crossroads, and drunk or not, he’s chosen her. She won’t risk sending him off, sending him into whoever’s bed he might stumble into. She has a message to send and if this is the vector it takes, then so be it.

She wraps her arms around his neck, nuzzles her face against his collarbone and tries to shut her head of

He is gone when she wakes the next morning, but his coat is spread over her like a blanket. She brushes her fingers over the old wool, and pulls it tighter around her.

He unzips the tent a few minutes later, and hands her a mug of hot liquid.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough.

“Hey,” she responds, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic. “Thanks for this. And the extra blanket. Aren’t you cold?”

He shakes his head, then grimaces. She can only imagine the hangover. “They’ve built the fires up again. It’s not so bad.”

She blows some of the steam off the top of the liquid, and takes a sip. “Where in god’s name did you get apple tea?”

He chuckles. “Washington state, Regan. Apple country.”

“I thought ADVENT banned agriculture? Had a nasty habit of burning what they found?”

He shrugs. “Enough survives. Mag --- Sally used to live on the stuff.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Mag?”

“Magpie. Small, fond of high places, and a talent for thievery.”

She grins. “That’s cute.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment.

“About last night …” He begins.”…Are we okay?”

“You mean dinner or …?”

“Both.”

She gapes, searching for the right words.  “I’m okay if you are.”

“We’re … I’m … we’re good. Just… what do we do about it?”

“I assumed we were treating it like Berlin.” 

He nods. “Good.”

“Agreed.”

They spend the rest of the time dealing in final negotiations with Volk, whose eyes never stray from the blotchy red marks covering Central’s neck.

She considers her point well made.

 


	21. Twenty-One

There is an art form to ignoring, a casual nonchalance that comes with ample practice.

They are both masters of it.

Or, they were. 

He takes to bringing her tea on shift, a hot mug passed off when she least expects it, most needs it. It’s an old habit, a quirk from before the war. She’d have thought he’d forgotten long ago.

Some things don’t change.

She stays with him when he drinks, insisting on water when she can. He doesn’t fight her, just takes it without complaint, and goes back to his liquor.

“Not scotch” is her only demand. He obliges without much complaint.

“How come you’re here?” He asks on the fifth night.

She shrugs. “Someone should be. Besides, having a buffer between you and Sally seems to keep things quieter.”

“Wasn’t always like this,” he says, downing a shot.

“Things with Sally or …?”

He nods.

“Growing pains?”

He shakes his head. “No, I fucked it up. Everyone has a limit to how much bullshit they’re willing to take. She hit hers, and I kept pushing.”

She sips at her tea. “Am I allowed to ask…?”  
  
He grimaces. “I was dry. For about, oh, six weeks. Getting there almost killed me.” He downs another shot and she fights the urge to comment on the irony. “I don’t remember most of that process. She does.”

“Anyway,” he sighs. “We were in a haven. It got hit. I went right back to what had always worked.” He shakes his head. “Was never cut out to parent, Regan. Didn’t expect her to look at me like she did.”

“And so you doubled down.”

“You were always a quick study.”

“Know some, see some, intuit the rest."

He rolls his eyes, but the mockery is gentle. “Sally took it personally. Didn’t expect that. Don’t know if it makes it better or worse that it was never about her at all. ”

 _Probably worse_ , she thinks, but settles for shaking her head.

“When she went AWOL after the ADVENT collaborator … Jesus. I thought we’d already hit rock bottom, but I found yet another way to fuck things up. Always could get creative. When she got back, I tore into her pretty good. Worse than she deserved. If I hadn’t fucked things up in the first place, she might’ve come to me instead of going out on her own.”

“You’ll fix it.”

“Don’t know that I can.”

“Always worth a try.” 

He offers her a defeated slump of his shoulders.

“Is this a thing we do now?” He asks after a moment.

“What?”

“This. Talking.”

“It’s a thing we _used_ to do. Things worked better when we did.”

He rubs at his neck. “I thought this would be easier. There are still days it hurts to look at you.”

“You want me to leave?"

He shakes his head. “Anything but.”  He buries his face in his hands. “Regan, I forget how this is supposed to work.” 

She leans over the bar and pours a glass of water, setting it in front of him. “It’s okay; I think I remember it well enough.” She takes a breath. “Thank you for having my back with Volk. I don’t know if you meant what you said, but I appreciate it regardless.

He takes a sip from the glass. “You’re welcome. And I did mean it. I do trust you.” He shifts. “High time I start acting like it.”

\--

“How do we do this?” She asks the next morning, curled next to him on the bed. “What do we give them?”

“Breadcrumbs,” he says. “Enough to get them looking without giving them all the answers.”

“So, what do we open with?”

“Without causing a panic? I was thinking op footage and the accompanying AAR.”

“You have one in mind?”

“Something that can be easily corroborated.”

“An urban one, then. Street cameras. You really want to put terror attack footage out there?”

“I was thinking abduction attempt. No harm in opening on a heroic note. Besides, I think terror footage might strike the wrong tone this time of year.”

She nods. “Agreed.”

“Also might be worth it to leave our names unredacted on the AAR.”

“You want to give them a rabbit hole?”

“I want to minimize deniability. It’s a lot harder to dismiss the scoop as a hoax when there’s names attached, names that have gone dark from their respective career records.”

“That makes sense. I’d rather keep Shen out of it, if possible.”

“And Vahlen.”

“God, yes.” 

“What do you want to do about Strike One?”

She chews on her lip. “Everyone loves a war hero, right? We’ve got … well, a lot more than five, but they’re a start.”

He nods.

“Are we crazy to be doing this?”

“If nothing else,” he says after a moment, “our people deserve recognition for what they did, for the sacrifices the made. We fought a long, hard battle and we paid for it in blood. The whole world knows that aliens exist. There’s nothing to hide. It’s time to come out of the shadows.”

“And?”

“Leverage is never bad when dealing with the Council.”

She shifts against him. A question eats at her, an answer she both wants and fears.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like we’ve gone from fighting the aliens to preparing to fight the Council. One war for another. I stand by what we’ve done, but … I just want a break. Peace for a little while. I look in the mirror, and I feel like I don’t recognize the person staring back at me.”

 “We’re not gonna be who we were. None of us are. We can’t go back. But we’ll be okay. It’ll get better.”

There’s a heaviness in her chest, a kind of dread she can’t explain. She knows he’s wrong, that things will not get better, though that certainty comes without evidence. There is no indication of a problem that rest and a healthy course of therapy won’t help. Still, something gnaws at her, a sense that there is something she’s overlooked, something she’s failed to take into account.

He pulls the blanket tighter around them, and presses a kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, anchoring herself in the moment.

 _It’s not real_ , she tells herself. _Everything’s fine._

\--

They circle back to North Dakota, gathering some new recruits and needed supplies. Shen sends out a team to begin assembling a small radio relay, a needed diversion from their current R&D efforts.

Central sits down across from her at breakfast, face grim. “I’ve got it on good authority we’re gonna be hearing from Volk.”

 “Interesting.”

“There’s a rendezvous they need us to oversee.”

“Thought Volk made it pretty clear he didn’t have much use for XCOM with me at the helm.”

He doesn’t meet her gaze. “He can be reasoned with.”

“Mmm,” she intones. “So, what’s the op?”  
  
“Reapers aren’t the only big players in the Resistance. You wouldn’t be here without them, but they didn’t work on their own.  A group called the Skirmishers got us the intel on your location.”

She nods.

“Skirmishers are ex-ADVENT. Needless to say, people aren’t lining up to work with’em. They’ve been at it with the Reapers for the last ten years or so, but they’ve agreed to a temporary ceasefire, if you oversee the meeting.”

“You were always the better diplomat.”

“I’m not who they need.”

She shakes her head. “They don’t know who they need.”

“So, you won’t do it?”

“No, I’ll do it, but if this is gonna work, I need you to be you. Come on. When haven’t I made a delicate situation worse?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Bullshit.”

He offers her a small chuckle. “You’re just direct with people.”

“Some people are scalpels, and some people are battle axes. We both know where I fall.”

“With these two groups? That’s not a bad thing.”

Volk is back in contact sooner than she’d like, his scuffy face leering down at her from the view screen.

“Commander.”

“Volikov.”

“Though we prefer to work alone,” he starts. “Sometimes, we could use backup. We could use your help … if you think you can handle it.”

“Central’s already briefed me. We’re happy to facilitate how we can.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve got a request.”

“I’m listening.”

He leans back and crosses his arms. “My people would feel better with a friendly face watching their back, especially with these ADVENT bastards. John’s girl’s a known quantity, maybe the only one among your people --- unless you’re willing to send John himself. I’d like her on the op. ”

She knows a counterplay when she sees one, and Volk’s is well thought out. Either she fields Sally and strips Central’s agency in the matter, or she refuses, allowing any hitch in the field to be pinned squarely on her shoulders.

 _Fucker_ , she thinks.

There is, however, almost always another option.

She turns to Central, whose face has set into an almost unreadable mask. “She’s not eighteen, so it’s your call, not mine.”

His gaze shifts to Sally, who stares at him with a sort of wild hope in her eye. “Come on,” he sighs. “You’re not going out without armor this time.”

“Really?”

He purses his lips. “I don’t like it, but if having you on the ground helps keep this op from imploding on itself …” He trails off.

A wide grin spreads across her face. “So, what am I getting gear-wise?”

“You think I’d ever hear the end of it if I fielded you with anything other than a sniper rifle? Stop looking so happy; this is serious. Let’s go.”  

He heads for the armory and Sally follows after, mouthing a silent cheer at the Commander. She stares after them for a moment, before turning her attention back to the screen.

“Consider this an act of good will, Volikov. Don’t expect it to happen again.”

“We’ll see, Commander. Volk out.”

\--

“I think I’m out of out time I can buy for you,” he says over lunch on the third day of her sabbatical. “They’re not happy coming to me for answers.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t take kindly to the system intrusion?”

He offers her a wry grin. “I might have implied that they were the ones to blame for the whole situation. Something about a lack of funding for critical systems maintenance and upgrades.”

She covers her mouth, trying to hide her smile. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest.”

“Usually.”

He shrugs. “They leave us to operate on a need to know basis. I’m just returning the favor.”

She shakes her head, but her expression betrays her. “If you brief me tonight, I’ll take command in the morning. I’m sure the Spokesman will be thrilled to hear my dulcet tones again.”

“I did my best to make you a welcome return to normalcy.”

“So,” she purrs. “The Boy Scout can play dirty after all.”

“Come on, Regan,” he says, lightly. “I thought I’d already done a good job establishing that.”

“Terrible!” She mutters, and pulls him into a kiss.

They sit in the Situation Room that night, piles of papers sprawled across the table. There is nothing new, nothing he hasn’t already alerted her to, but they’d be fools not to make a show of it. The energy spikes have increased in frequency; repairs on the base are well underway; the skies have been clear; the Council has expressed concerns about the systems breach.

All is as it should be.

They sign the reversion of command order, and she fights the urge to rest her head on his shoulder.

The break has helped. Having another voice in Council matters has helped. There is still the crushing sense of doom in her chest, the nagging sensation that there’s something she’s forgotten, something coming down the line that she’s neglected to prepare for, but she is learning to live with that particular sensation.

She stands before the Spokesman the next morning and could almost swear that he sounds happy to see her.

“The Council is  relieved to see you have returned to your post, Commander.”

“Thank you,” she nods. “I’m grateful to Officer Bradford for his assistance over the past several days. It was an inopportune time to have taken ill.”

“Given the week’s events, the Council would strongly agree with your assessment.”

“We have full comms through Alpha and Beta sections,” she offers, “and full internal monitoring through Alpha. Repairs have put off our timeline for Firestorm delivery, but I’m confident in our ability to have global coverage by early February.”

“Has your team made any progress in identifying the source of the disturbance?”

“Only that it was non-terrestrial in nature.”

“Alien.”

“Yes.”

Her stomach knots.

The Spokesman sighs, startlingly human. “Do you or your team have reason to believe another incursion is imminent?”

“Negative,” she answers. “We believe there’s a correlation between the energy spikes we’ve been encountering, and the pulse. We believe the former to be the result of technology already present on Earth.”

“Very well,” the Spokesman intones. “We will be in touch.”


	22. Twenty-Two

New Year’s is quiet. They watch old _Twilight Zone_ episodes on her laptop and pop a bottle of sparkling cider when the clock reads _00:00:01 1 1 2016._ It is not grand, and it is not fancy, but as her lips meet his, Elizabeth Regan is happy.

“Any resolutions?” He asks.

She tips her head against his shoulder. “Hmm, all the usual ones seem sort of blasé now. Who gives a shit if my paperwork’s late? Aliens invaded the Earth. We fought them off. We won. I’d like to say it’s to develop a more regular sleep schedule again, but somehow, that seems about as likely as learning to understand football. I know,” she says, after a moment. “How about finding bigger sleeping arrangements? That sounds good.”

“You’re saying you don’t think two adults are mean to fit on the same twin XL mattress? I’m shocked.”

“Much as I loved undergrad, I could do without reliving that particular aspect.”

“Don’t know why,” he grins.

She shrugs. “I’m just funny like that. Traveling spoiled me.”

“Lizzie, I hate to break it to you, but the bunk’s a lot bigger than an airplane seat.”

“That’s not what I meant! We stayed in some fairly nice places. They had real beds. Beds big enough to share.”

“We only tested that, what? Two? Three times?”

“Three,” she says, wiggling closer. “The spiders. Zurich. Berlin.”

“Ahh, the spiders.” He kisses the top of her head. “How could I forget?”

“How _could_ you forget? I woke you up at two in the morning.”

“You woke me up in your _bathrobe_.”

 “I thought it would be quick! I didn’t think you’d be offended. I still had underwear on!”

“I would go with distracted over offended.”

She presses a kiss to his jaw. “Sorry.”

“It was nothing compared to the villa. You know, the one with the pool?”

“I’m _not_ sorry about that.”

“Tease.”

“I was hot! It wasn’t air conditioned!”

“You were in a bra and your underwear. They were _floral_.”

“You _do_ remember!”

“I don’t think I could forget if I tried. Not that I’d want to.”

“Would it really have been better if I’d been in a bathing suit?”

“You were standing there in your _underwear_. It wasn’t a far jump to _other places_ you could be standing in your underwear.“

“But is it really worse than a bikini?”

“You own a bikini?”

“God, no.”

“Exactly.”

“You were so surprised that they matched. I don’t know what you were expecting, but it apparently wasn’t that.”

“I was surprised you were standing there in them.”

“I was wearing a silk blouse and a linen skirt. I couldn’t jump in a pool in those. The dry cleaning bill would have been even worse than it already was for that trip. Though,” she says, trailing off. “If you’re really so baffled by the sight of matching lingerie, maybe I should just keep the uniform on after all.”

He sets the laptop aside and catches her in a kiss, pinning her to the bed.

“I think I’ll adapt.”

\--

She lingers the in the archway, watching Central help Sally fit her armor. He steps back to look at the girl, then reaches into a pocket and presses something into her hand, but whatever he says is too quiet to carry. She slips it around her neck and under her shirt, then throws her arms around Central’s neck. The gesture seems less foreign to him, and he pulls her in closer for a moment before letting her go.

Sometime later, the whole of Menace One Five stands assembled in the armory, split into fireteams: Royston and Kelly on one, with Zaytsev and Wallace on the other.

“For better or worse,” she begins. “This isn’t a standard op. You’ll be escorting two hostile parties to a rendezvous point that you’ll receive once you’re on the ground. Kelly, Royston: you’ll be with the Reaper. Wallace, Zaytsev: you’ll escort the Skirmisher.“

“We’re operating in the dark. We know little to nothing about conditions on the ground, or what you’ll be facing. Both the Skirmishers and the Reapers have agreed to a ceasefire for the duration, but I don’t know to what extent either side intends to honor those terms.”

She draws in a deep breath, and her demeanor softens. “My point is: be careful. We could be facing anything out there, and the nature of negotiations is volatile. Stay alert, watch each other’s backs, and don’t take any risks you don’t have to. If this goes well, we stand to gain two very powerful allies. Good luck. You’re on the clock.”

Menace salutes her and piles onto the Skyranger, stowing their gear for transport. She heads back towards the Bridge as the craft rises towards the open air. Central gives them the go for takeoff, and they are on their way.

Forty five minutes til drop and she stands on the balcony overlooking the ship’s heart, a bottle of water in her hand. Central is next to her, hands braced on the railing.

“Sal looked like her mom, all kitted out like that,” she offers. “It’s gonna be like having a ghost on the field.”

He nods. “Steph would kill me if she knew.”

“Didn’t want Sally following her into the family business?”

“Think she knew that was inevitable. Just wanted to put it off for as long as she could. I promised her eighteen.”

“But?”

“But Volk must’ve had a reason for asking. If he really thinks a friendly face might help defuse some tension…” He shrugs. “She’s a good shot. She’s got good instincts on the field. She ever gets a better hold on that Gift, and she’s gonna be something else. Besides, I know her. She would’ve found a way to go no matter what I said. Least this way, I get to feel like I gave her my blessing, instead of having her sneakin’ around behind my back.”

“You trying to convince me or yourself?” She asks, softly.

“Little bit of both.”

“It’s just one op.”

“And then another, and another. She’s an XCOM operative now. Not much I can do about it.”

“You said it yourself: was probably inevitable.”

His shoulders droop. “Regan, I never should have been a parent. Half the time, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and the other half, I knew it was the wrong thing. But I tried to keep her safe. I didn’t always succeed, but I tried. Now, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do, but watch and hope. It just hits harder than I thought it would.“

\--

What surprises her most is the normalcy. For all his concerns in the wake of Berlin, there is no discernible change in their professional relationship. Everything flows as it should. If the men suspect anything, they do not show it --- a near guarantee that all appears as it was.

It occurs to her that it is because they have been together, in some way or another, for a long time already; always in one another’s orbit, always able to parse the other’s meaning with a minimum of explanation. It is what makes them such a good team, what has _always_ made them such a good team.

She could laugh.

Or kiss him, but she’ll have to wait til later for a shot at that.

“Commander,” her comm sounds. “When you have a moment, please stop by the labs.”

“Of course, Doctor. I’m on my way.” She catches Central’s eye across the room. “You’re in charge. I’ll be with Vahlen in the labs if anything comes up.”

“Understood.”

She breezes through the empty Common Room on her way and stops to pause a moment, trying to envision the space decorated for a wedding. She believes in Molchetti and Hershel, no doubt, but she still can’t wrap her head around it. Steph had seemed grateful they’d taken such an interest; she and Edouard still seem to have their hands full managing their families.

She realizes she will not have to wonder for much longer: the twentieth is rapidly approaching.

Vahlen pulls her into the lab’s small conference room almost immediately upon her arrival.  Shen sits in the dim light, apparently waiting.

“Should I call Central?” She asks, suddenly wary.

“No. Someone needs to monitor the energy spikes,” the Chief Engineer says, shifting uncomfortably.

“What’s going on, you two?”

“In the wake of the energy spike in the base,” Vahlen begins. “We noticed a change in the blood samples we had previously tested. The nanomachines, which we had previously observed in a dormant state, activated.”

“And?”

Vahlen reaches into her coat pocket and hands her a vial of dark green liquid.  “This was our sample with the highest concentration. While it still carries some DNA markers, it has been mutated beyond a state one could reasonably call human.”

“This was blood? Human blood?”

“Indeed.”

She passes the sample back to the scientist. “Goddamnit.”

“While correlation is by no means causation,” Shen offers. “I am reasonably confident that the Fog Pods serve as a kind of control mechanism for these nanomachines. The energy spikes we have previously observed must be instructions to remain dormant. The spike from within the base was likely an activation. If it was able to take out our monitoring tech, such a pulse would like be catastrophic to civilian communication devices.”

Her mouth runs dry. “So, it’s a time bomb. What do you suggest?”

Shen and Vahlen lock gazes for a moment. “A dual pronged approach,” Vahlen says. “My team will work to understand the machines’ effect on human physiology.”

“And mine will work to disable the Pods.”

The Commander nods. “Do what you can to start investigating countermeasures for those already infected.” She rubs at her temples. “Brief Central, then get to work. Let’s not cause a panic, but we’re working against a clock we can’t track.”

She rises from the table. “Anything else?”

The question is met with shaking heads.

“Good. Dismissed.”

\--

She does not _think_ she is hallucinating, but she does not entirely believe what she sees is real, either.

Zombie movies were always something of a joke among her cohort. How could anyone be so bad at responding to a biothreat to let it escalate the way it always seemed to? What idiot would allow that to happen?

ADVENT, apparently.

The hoard, things that might have once been called human but might now only be called humanoid at her most charitable, advances down the alley, blocking Dragunova, Kelly, and Royston’s only exit path.

There is seemingly no end to their numbers, a whole city mutated beyond recognition. With each wave they shoot down, more appear. It feels like a video game with an unmerciful AI; she tries not to focus on the comparison. Her sense of reality is impaired as it is; there’s no reason to exacerbate the problem.

She tries to focus on the positives. Contact with the Reapers went well. Dragunova seems comfortable operating in the ruins. She’s a strong third member of the fireteam and already seems to have a decent rapport with Sally, who in turn, works in uncanny synchronicity with Kelly. For his part, Central has barely touched his flask, a fact she notes with no small amount of surprise.

The creatures continue their approach, unphased by the gunshots thinning their numbers.

“Out!” Kelly calls.

“I’m spent,” Dragunova echoes.

“I got this,” Sally chirps, scrambling on top of an automobile carcass, and onto a nearby fire escape.

“Sally, what are you ---“

“Trust me.”

Gunshots ring out, and the Lost begin to fall in quick succession. Kelly and Dragunova reload and make quick work of the remainder.

She does not believe in ghosts --- not really. They are things of myth and fairy tale, scary stories used to coerce little children in from the dark. The dead are the dead. Their memories roam the halls, yes, but the cause remains the grief of the living.

She believes in an afterlife, though. For her own sake, she has to. She has to believe that there is a chance, however small, that the lost are not gone forever, that reunions are not a pitiful dream.

She believes that, wherever Stephanie Royston is, she would be proud of her daughter.

Central’s grip on the railing is tight, but when she looks, there’s pride in his eyes.


	23. Twenty-Three

She wakes with a start and reaches for John. The space next to her is empty and she panics for a moment before remembering his late shift. 

_He’s fine._ _He’s just in Mission Control._ _You’re worried about nothing._

She rubs at her eyes, chasing the memory from her mind. It had felt real, yes, but didn’t every nightmare?

They have never encountered anything that matches the description etched in her memory. While the Ethereals had certainly been fearsome, they had been easy enough to shoot. They did not seem to flicker in and out of existence, a ghost on the wind. 

She rolls over, and buries her face in his pillow, breathing him in. Her men are safely accounted for in the base; there is no reason for the sick pit in her stomach. 

Except that’s not quite true. 

The memory of the vial fills her with a rolling nausea, a reminder of her failure to anticipate the threat in advance. She doesn’t even want to contemplate how many across the globe now carry the infection, how many of her own people are at risk. 

She reaches for her datapad, and rolls over, holding her thumb over the device’s scanner. She hates mandating intrusive tests. 

_All XCOM operatives having served in areas with active Fog Pod deployment are to report to medical for mandatory blood draw within the next forty-eight hours,_ she writes. 

She fights the urge to tag on an apology. Nearly a year as the head of XCOM and the idea still creeps up on her. 

_“Not how it’s done,”_ John once told her. “ _You’re in charge. You make the calls, and we live with them._ ”

“ _Feels rude.”_

 _“You can’t apologize for orders you_ g _ive on._ _We all know that. We signed up for it. You run the show._

He was right.. _You’re in charge_ , she’d told herself as she’d mandated psionics testing. _You’re in charge_ , she’d told herself as she’d sent Martin into the field, still horrified by the power at the tips of his fingers.

 _You’re in charge_ , she’d told herself as the Muton crashed through Mission Control.

 _You’re in charge, and it’s your fault_.

She sets the datapad aside, and digs her hands into her eyes. _It’s fine_ , she tells herself. _Shen and Vahlen will figure out how to deactivate the pods. They’ll find countermeasures. It’s what they_ do. _You caught it in time. No harm, no foul. There’s a solution, and they’ll find it_.

She doesn’t believe any of it.

Instead, she rolls over, and pulls the blanket tighter around her. She has a nagging sense that something is off, that something bad is coming; she’d chalk it up to the events of the past year, or the vials, but something in her gut says it is something else entirely.

She tries to focus on what she knows. The Fog Pods release a gas containing a mutagenic agent somehow tied to the energy spikes the same structures are also emitting. The information they have begun to leak to the press is taking root; John’s contacts are reporting more and more activity around sensitive subjects. Steph and Edouard’s wedding is rapidly approaching. She loves John, and he loves her.

She just has to focus on what’s in front of her, and it will be fine.

\--

She’d really thought they might make it. Central hadn’t lost his talent for brinksmanship, and there was a glimmer of the man she once knew twinkling in his eye.

She sits on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. She should be reviewing footage, pinning down where it went wrong, where she’d fucked up. Instead, she is trying not to vomit.

Someone knocks at her door.

“In,” she calls, not bothering to move.

“Are you okay?” Central asks.

“I got Gunda killed and Mox captured. You sure I’m still the person you want running this show?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

“I’m not. Maybe I never should have been."

“We wouldn’t have made it as far as we did without you. And we sure as hell won’t be making it much farther if you give up.”

She meets his gaze. “What if I’m not who I was? I keep thinking about it, and I can’t find a way things could have gone differently. She was _down_. We all saw her go down.” She shakes her head. “But there she was. And now the Skirmisher’s emissary’s in ADVENT hands because of _my_ calls.”

 “And if who I used to be was really so great, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. Let’s put that blame squarely where it belongs.”

“Regan.”

“Bradford.”

He shifts. “Can I sit down?”

 “Yeah, of course.”

She’s getting used to having him close again; it’s still not the old days, but it doesn’t ache the way it did at first.  She leans into the warmth of him before she can stop herself, too tired to weigh the consequences before acting. He hesitates for a moment, then covers her hand with his. She can make out the tremor --- a telltale sign that running the mission dry had, in fact, taken its toll.

“Outrider sent word to Volk. Sounds like his people are willing to look for a lead on Mox’s location, but we’ve gotta throw some manpower behind it, too.”

She nods. “We’ll send Zaytsev and one of the rookies. Should start getting them used to the field as quickly as we can. Recon should be low enough risk.”

“Agreed.”

“You did good, by the way,” she says. “Haven’t lost your talent for talking your way out of bad places.”

“Thanks, but I wouldn’t go that far."

She pauses for a moment, considering if she really wants the answer to the question buzzing in her mouth. “What did Volk say?”

It’s an act of masochism, and she knows it. Her performance on the mission may as well have confirmed Volk’s worst accusations --- _allowing_ a soldier to be captured by the enemy, practically _handing him over_. Who would do that except a known collaborator?

He shakes his head. “Don’t know, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll handle him.”

“Thanks. I don’t think I’m ready for round two.”

He gently squeezes her hand. “You don’t have to be.”

\--

In the Common Room, Molchetti, Bernard, and Pukkila are hovering around an oversized pad of paper.

“No, no, you can’t do that. That’s too much.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t not include that.”

“Go ask Devorah; she’ll back me up.”

“Are you _really_ bringing my girlfriend into this?”

“ _Mon dieu_ , you two.”

She has a bad feeling about this. “What’re you three doing?”

“Official Royston-Martin Ceremonial Drinking Game,” Pukkila answers, never tearing his eyes from the paper. “We need a better shorthand for them,” he adds, distractedly.

“You needed the shorthand months ago. Speaking of which, didn’t you all have one already in development?”

“We did, until _someone_ tipped Steph off. Not that you would know anything about that.”

“Of course not. What reignited the spark?”

“Martin’s father last night, Royston’s mother this morning,” Bernard says. “No respect for those of us trying to have our coffee without the sound of screaming.”

She grimaces. “Oh no. So, they still haven’t acclimated to the idea, then?”

“That’s a fucking understatement, ma’am,” Pukkila groans.

“At least Mama Royston likes Martin,” Molchetti chirps. “She’s just worried about the timeframe.”

“Martin’s parents still don’t like Royston?” She asks.

“She’s not French,” Bernard explains. “She’ll never overcome that.”

“She speaks the language." 

“She speaks it well, but her birth certificate says ‘USA’ on it.”

“And if she got dual citizenship?”

Bernard shakes his head. “She’s not from France. She’ll never be from France.”

She stares at him blankly.

“His parents are traditionalists. He’s broken protocol. They won’t get over it.”

“And coming up with a drinking game helps how?”

“It’s not for them,” Molchetti shrugs. “It’s for the rest of us.”

“To cope with the parental displeasure?”

“To cope with Stephanie ‘I don’t need a dress; I have pajamas’ Royston.”

“Royston’s turning down a dress? _Our_ Steph Royston?”

Molchetti nods solemnly. “All this chaos has taken a toll.”

“And you’re all sitting here, coming up with the rules for a drinking game instead of grabbing her by the shoulders, and getting her to snap out of it?”

“Oh, please. I have four dresses coming for her to try on. I’m not letting her get married in pajamas.”

“I have … goods coming in,” Bernard says. “But I can’t tell you what.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Not live animals.”

“Not live animals.”

“And not fireworks.”

Bernard furrows his brow at her. “What do you Americans _do_ at weddings?”

She nods. “Good. What about you?” She asks, turning her attention to Pukkila. “What’s your excuse?”

His cheeks grow bright red. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?”

“Yeah.”

“Pukkila.”

“It’s nothing bad.”

Her eyes dart from Molchetti to Bernard, mischief glinting in both of their eyes.

“If it’s not bad, then you can tell me.”

“Go on,” Molchetti says. “She’s not letting you off the hook.”

Pukkila caps his marker. “So, candles are a fire hazard.” 

“Yes, yes, they are.”

“LED candles aren’t.”

“I don’t see where this is going.”

“You will.”

She cocks her head, looking among the three. “You’re really gonna play this one close to this chest, huh?”

They nod.  

“Alright,” she concedes “I can see when I’m not making progress.

“So, you’re not gonna tell them about the drinking game?” Pukkila asks. 

“Not this time, but god help you all if the happy couple finds out.”

\--

She finds Sally pacing the ship.

“You seem out of sorts.”

“I just … They just … She just _grabbed_ him, and he was _gone_. Like, nothing. We didn’t even have time to react. They could do that to … to any of us. And there’s nothing anyone else could _do_.”

“We’ll get Mox back, Sally."

“I know. I just … it’s scary. Knowing they’re out there is one thing. Seeing one is another.”

“You don’t have to go back in the field,” she says, slowly. “You don’t owe anybody anything. You can still make a difference here. You proved your point.You don’t have to do this.”

“I do, though,” Sally shifts. “My family. I owe them. Someone has to keep fighting. It’s my job now.”

“Hey, no,” she says softly. “It’s not. It doesn’t have to be. It’s not about who you owe. Once you fall into the trap of living for other people, and forgetting to do what’s right for you, it’s hard to get out of. It leaves you too vulnerable.”

“To what?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little _funny_ that a _civilian_ was running a paramilitary org? Let alone one my age?”

 “I don’t think you understand: I only ever had Central’s stories.”

She shakes her head. “Growing up, I idolized my Uncle Mark. He was the only one who ever really treated me like an adult when I desperately wanted to be one. He took me seriously --- even when it felt like no one else would.” She pauses, brushing her braid over her shoulder. “He was the first one who ever got me interested in strategy and tactics. We’d sit together at parties and dinners and pick things apart. It was fun. And someone gave a shit about what I thought, what I had to say.”

“Uncle Mark had a friend teaching in the War Studies Department at King’s College London. When I wanted to go to grad school there, he put in a good word. I worked hard, sure, but I had a guardian angel it seemed. I thought it was just that I showed promise.” 

“I had to do something after I had my Masters, so I went off and got a PhD. Biodefense.” She rolls her eyes. “It sounded so glamorous. Bring together everything I had learned based on historical precedent with best practice in incident response to mitigate civilian casualties in the event of biological threat being unleashed.”

“You really _did_ used to teach,” Sally groans.

She chuckles. “Well, lo and behold, my Uncle Mark had friends at the program at George Mason, too. Lucky me. Head of the department, even! I really thought it was me. I really thought it was _my_ work that caught his attention.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t?”

“When they called me in, after Central turned down the command, I asked the what they were thinking. I wasn’t military. I was a civilian. And, in terms of commanding, a _young_ civilian. What the hell could I offer?” She shakes her head. “The project head looked at me and said ‘Dr. Regan, you really don’t know?”

“It turns  wasn’t me at all. All of those people, all of those chances … it was never me. Uncle Mark had worked with an organization called the Bureau in the sixties, under a man named DaSilva. So had his friends." 

She reaches for her braid, running her hands over it. “I was one of … I don’t know how many they’d groomed over the years. Once I took to it, it was all laid out. I was only special because I was the one who’d most ardently, most faithfully followed the path they put me on. I just wanted to make them proud, to be enough for them. Look at where it landed me."

“Would you have done anything different if you knew?”

“ _God_ , yes. I would never have gotten mixed up in this. There would have been someone else, someone who might have actually won. Don’t make your decisions for other people, Sally. At the end of it all, you’ll be the one to live with’em. There’s nothing wrong with getting off the field. Sometimes, it’s the bravest thing you can do.”

The younger Royston crosses her arms.

“Promise me you’ll think about it, alright?”

She nods, but the Commander knows a lie when she sees one


	24. Twenty-Four

“As you can imagine, Doctor, the Council’s alarm at these leaks continues to grow.”

She tucks her hands into the pockets of her sweater. Yes, the base is always a consistent temperature, but that temperature is consistently not warm enough.

The few days away have made a difference. She can stand before the Spokesman if not confidently than at least absent the crushing sense of impending doom, the belief that there is a cell in some dark prison waiting for her.

“And I can assure you that I appreciate the Council’s concerns. Dr. Shen and his team are continuing their analysis, and as soon as we have a working theory, I will bring it to the Council’s attention.”

“Surely, Dr. Shen has offered potential explanations.”

She fights the urge to smirk. Of all the questions she has prepared for, this is the best case scenario.

“While it’s purely speculation pending a thorough investigation, Dr. Shen and his team believe the virus used to gain access to the files has been in our system for some time, and was likely implanted upstream before installation into the base.”

The Spokesman’s shoulders grow tense. “You’re certain?”

“It’s a preliminary hypothesis,” she says. “Dr. Shen’s team has been swamped as of late --- between the massive systems burn and now this, they’re putting in the same amount of time as they were at the height of the Invasion. But yes, that is his current theory.”

“You will keep us informed.”

“Of course.”

The screen fades to black before her and she lets out a slow, even breath. The implication of potential espionage from within the ranks should be enough to keep them occupied for some time. There is something to be said for sowing a little chaos, rather than being caught up in its wake.

They’ve settled on a strategy of distraction and misdirection. Keep the Council focused somewhere else while Shen and Vahlen continue their work with the Fog Pods, and John’s backchannel contacts begin reaching out, word of XCOM and its successes beginning to spread.

The wheels are in motion; they just need time to let them spin.

She feels strangely light, relieved, though it’s entirely premature. There are significant hurdles to overcome. The gambit is risky and likely still to explode in their faces. The call was a victory, yes, but it was a skirmish, not even a battle.

Still, she allows herself the momentary happiness.

If she has learned anything in her time with XCOM, it is the importance of permitting yourself the time to celebrate small wins. Yes, the path is long and they have only just begun to travel it, but they have made it past this particular challenge. They will be ready for whatever is coming.

Or so she hopes.

She steps out into Mission Control, and offers Central a wink when she catches his eye. He hides his grin behind a coffee mug.

It is a new year. A fresh start. The world is rebuilding and the comms are quiet. They know what they’re up against now, and they’re working to counter it. They have designs on the Council.

This time last year, she’d been on a plane back from Rome; the year before, she’d turned down a job offer from one of the world’s largest security consulting firms; the year before that, she’d resigned a tenure track position: all in pursuit of XCOM.

She’s not who she was --- and it’s not a bad thing. There are challenges, yes, but there were alwys challenges. There were challenges teaching. There were challenges consulting. There were challenges researching. These ones just give her satisfaction to overcome.

Everything finds a balance.

\--

There are several small crates waiting for her in her quarters, discovered in the storage area now being transitioned into a war room.

She knows that someone has returned to the old base at least once. There are enough relics floating around to remind her of it at every turn. That there are crates containing her personal effects should not be surprising.

She would like to find her necklace. She is positive she wasn’t wearing it during the attack and she misses its familiar weight around her neck.

She undoes the lid on the first crate and begins to sift through it, the flotsam and jetsam of her old life. She’s greeted by several neatly folded blouses and a pair of pajama bottoms. She digs in further to find a handful of hair ties and two hair clips --- souvenirs from a trip to Tokyo in the course of her PhD research. At the bottom is one of Central’s old Naval Academy tee shirts, stolen sometime between Zurich and Berlin.

She tries not to dwell on it.

The second crate is a hodgepodge. There are some clothes, some books, pencils, pens, her trenchcoat, and most interestingly, three external hard drives. Her duct tape labels still hold: _movies, music, tv_. She wonders if there’s a way to pull the data off, and makes a note to ask Shen.

She opens the third crate, and immediately regrets the decision. The photo of her parents stares up at her, their smiles still bright. More faces follow: Strike One, engaged in a high stakes game of Crazy Eights; Will, Jane curled up on him as if she were a lapdog instead of a full grown German Shepherd; Tanya, glowering over a mug of piping hot tea; her grandparents, standing proudly outside their shop on Orchard Street.

She almost cannot bring herself to look at the last photo.

A woman who looks like her and a man who looks like a younger Central stand arm-in-arm under an enormous umbrella. She beams at the camera, caught mid-laugh. He smiles down at her.

It feels strange to look at them, to claim them as her past. It feels more like the memory of a movie she’d once watched, rather than her own life.

She sets the image aside.

She reaches in again, and her fingers find an overstuffed leather notebook. More photographs jut out from within its leaves. She pulls it out and traces her fingers over the embossed lettering: _Neither a wise man or a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him - Eisenhower._

Her necklace is not inside the crate.

She settles with a huff on the ground, and turns her attention to the notebook. She thinks back, and attempts to take stock of the past several weeks. Yes, they’ve interrupted some sort of ADVENT operation, and yes, Tygan’s team is hard at work on its analysis, but she can point to no concrete measure of progress. They are floundering. _She_ is floundering, reacting and overreacting to events, allowing them to dictate what she can’t bring herself to call her strategy.

They’re not gaining any traction.

She knows that she can be better than this, that she can _do_ better than this, but she has to get up off the goddamn tracks.

She’s never been a fan of digital, not when she’s really needed to think. She’s vaguely aware of the science behind it, but if she is truthful, she suspects it is because she has always held a fondness for pen and paper.

Unfortunately, the latter seems to be in awfully short supply.

Her gaze turns to the books lining the shelf. She grits her teeth, and takes one down, then extends the lead on her mechanical pencil. If this sacrilege is the price, so be it.

She doesn’t worry about order at first, just lets the words flow onto the end paper. There is the matter of rescuing the Skirmisher, yes, and also of the canister recovered from the black site, but the wheels are already turning on those fronts; there is noting she can do at present.

There is the matter of the alien who kidnapped Mox, the Assassin and, if she’d heard Dragunova correctly, the others just like her.

She knows that if she hopes to deal with the monsters, they’ll need allies --- which brings her to the problem of Volk. She’s set herself at a disadvantage; she knows that. If she wants any hope of yanking him into line, she’ll need leverage. Leverage requires intel, a resource she sorely lacks.

There is a long road ahead. She has no idea what to expect from Skirmisher leadership and they presently lack any actionable information on the locale of the Templars.

Then, there is the matter of holding potential tense allegiances in balance, but it’s a problem for another day.

It’s obvious that her first job is filling in the pieces she lacks, but she can’t do that on her own. She knows Sally has those she’s friendly with in Reaper ranks, and she doesn’t doubt that Central could tell her a thing or two. Still, she needs a wider net, and that will require face time.

She’s learned that the best cover stories are rooted in truth: if she really intends for her people to be working with the Reapers, they’ll need to build rapport. The sooner they start, the better it will be. A few days of mingling at Reaper HQ might begin to give them the in she needs --- especially if it comes without restrictions with regard to leisure activities.

She reserves the right to put her foot down about the food, however.

She weighs her options. She should deal with Volk herself, but that feels uncomfortably like supplication. She could put Central up to it, give Volk the message that she has other priorities, other matters to attend to. It might be enough to send a message.

The request might also be better received.

She nods. She can do this.

There are yet other problems. Long term viability of havens with regards to physical security and stability. Counterpropaganda. The Lost and the vast sweep of the contagion. She will address them in time.

She sits down next to Central the next morning, and takes a deep breath. “I think we should be building better relationships with the Reapers.”

He nearly loses his lukewarm coffee. “Excuse me?”

“You and I both know we’re at a personnel deficit. If we’re gonna work with them, we need to build rapport.”

“And this is how you want to address it? You and Volk didn’t exactly hit it off.”

She nods. “Training fresh recruits out of the havens takes time, time that we don’t have. Reapers are marksmen with ample combat experience in hostile terrain. We’d be stupid not to press for assistance, but we can’t do that without rapport. I’m thinking we take a few days to learn from one another while the team is out following up on where they’re holding Mox.”

He considers this for a moment. “It’ll be a tough sell.”

“Spin it as mutually beneficial.”

“You want _me_ to make the ask?”

“You’re better suited right now. Volk trusts you.”

“He’s not dumb.”

“He still thinks he has leverage.”

“Regan, I---“  
  
“If I had concerns about your loyalty, I wouldn’t ask.”

He eyes her over his coffee cup, confused but not suspicious. “Alright. Whatever you need.”

She passes Sally later that day on her way down to check on Tygan’s progress in the lab.

“Ma’am,” she starts. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”

“And?”

“I’d still rather be in the field than anywhere else.”

“I’ve been thinking, too. And we’ll be lucky to have you --- in three weeks.”

Sally’s face falls. “Three weeks?”

She nods. “As far as I can tell, you’re highly competent. You kept a cool head, even when things went pear shaped. You’re gonna be a real asset on the field, if that’s where you truly want to be. But you’ve got three weeks til I’ll honor that choice.”

“Did Central---“

She shakes her head. “This one’s on my head. He and I haven’t even talked about it.”

Sally considers this, then nods. “You mean it, though? Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”


	25. Twenty-Five

“No!” Someone yells from behind her.

She turns around in time to see Steph Royston, two dresses slung over her arm, stalking through the Common Room with Isabella Molchetti in hot pursuit.

“Yes!” Royston counters. “I don’t know which one looks better. I want another opinion.”

“He’s not supposed to---“

“We live in the same tiny space, Molchetti. He’s gonna see before. Besides, it’s a silly superstition. We survived an alien Invasion; he’ll survive seeing me in the dresses.”

“It’s bad---“

“It’s also bad luck to be mind controlled by aliens _twice_ , yet here we are.”

She watches the scene with a sort of fond amusement pulling at her lips. Despite her icy demeanor on the field, Molchetti quickly revealed herself as the closet romantic in the aftermath of Edouard’s proposal.

Quietly, she suspects the sniper is the only reason Royston has even given thought to anything other than the date and her vows.

“Do you really want to tempt fate?”

Royston stops dead. “Are you telling you think there is something worse out there than an alien invasion? Really?”

Molchetti rolls her eyes. “I am telling you I believe in stacking the deck.”

“Commander,” Royston implores. “Please tell Molchetti that my fiancé seeing me in a wedding dress will not unleash a renewed wave of alien hellfire upon our heads.”

“If it does, we better hope the hellfire gives us a few weeks. Firestorm construction keeps getting delayed in favor of other emergencies, and we still don’t have global coverage.”

“See?” Molchetti crows.

“Oh my god,” Royston groans. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“I can’t believe you want him to see you in the dress.”

“There isn’t even a dress yet!”

“It’s one of these two.”

“You’ve seen. Dev’s seen. Pukkila has seen. Hell, Lan has seen. I am still no closer to deciding which very expensive dress I’m going to wear for one day and then never again.”

“So unromantic.”

“Practical,” Royston insists. “I’m practical.”

“Get her opinion.”

“Mine?” She asks.

“Your grandparents owned a bridal shop, didn’t they?”

“My grandfather did, yeah. But I never picked up his eye for it. I was always better with menswear.”

“Menswear?”

“Grandmother was a tailor. She did a lot of bespoke work.”

“You must have picked up _something_ ,” Molchetti insists.

“I guess? I can tell you if it’s well made, but I don’t think that’s the issue at hand.”

“Good enough.” Molchetti turns her attention back to Royston. “Show her.”

“Show … ma’am, don’t have you have better things to do?”

“Yeah, but so do you. Faster you solve the dress question, the better it is for all involved.”

The bride-to-be groans. “That’s fair. But this is ridiculous.”

“Complain after you have the dress on,” Molchetti chides. “ _Andiamo_!”

She can’t be certain, but she thinks she hears Royston mutter something along the lines of _meshugganah_ under her breath as she stalks away.

The first dress is pretty yes, all lacey and delicate, but it’s far too stuffy and swallows Steph whole, an angry imp consumed by taffeta.

The second is much better, liquid silk with graceful lines, the kind of dress you could hide a pistol under. She seems more at ease in it, more herself.

“That one,” the Commander says. “Hands down.”

“You don’t think it’s too under---“  
  
“You heard the woman, Molchetti,” Royston insists. “This one it is.”

Someone lets out a low appreciative whistle, and the women turn towards the sound. Martin and Bernard stand in the doorway.

“ _Oui. Celle-là_ ,” Martin says. “ _T’es belle_.”

Royston beams as Molchetti launches into a string of Italian profanities.

\--

She is not there when he makes the call, does not know what he says. She takes his place on the Bridge, and he takes her quarters. He is still sober when he emerges, half an hour later, mission accomplished.

Questions claw at her. There is so much she wants to know, so much she wishes she could ask.

But she doesn’t.

They sit at the bar late that night during the shift change from second to third. He has switched from vodka to beer, though his hands still shake. Resistance radio yammers on in the background, and while she’ll take the DJ’s inanities over the Speaker’s, she’d still like to shut it off.

Central beats her to it, tapping the off button with the bottom of his glass.

“Thank you,” she sighs, tension beginning to drain from her shoulders.              

“He means well.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm. The death metal impressions are a different story.”

“Never was your taste.”

“Or yours.”

He chuckles and they slip back into a silence, one that feels less and less tense each time it settles.

“Thank you,” she ventures, “for the crates, by the way. It’s nice to have a few familiar things around.”

“Sorry it took so long.”

 “There’s a lot to keep track of with everything going on. I was surprised you could save as much as you did.”

“The base aged alright. And I had help --- Sally still had some of Steph’s access codes.”

“But getting it all out from Kansas?”

“That was the trick. A lot of careful driving.”

“And getting it across the ocean?”

“A lot of bargaining.”

“How’d you do it, anyway?”

“Navy friends ignored an order to stand down after U-Day. Rallied the crew, commandeered the ship, and starting running counter ops. _Virginia_ class, built for stealth.  They were the ones who got us across.”

“And ADVENT didn’t notice?”

“They don’t pay a lot of attention to what they can’t see. One of the few advantages of travel by submarine.”

“That was gutsy.”

“They ran a good ship. Was harder on Sally than anyone else.”

“Claustrophobic?”

He nods. “And afraid of the ocean, to boot.”

She lets out a pained hiss. “I’m sure that was a fun experience for all involved.”

“She spent most of the trip curled up in her bunk, trying to sleep or reading. Tommy bribed her out with oranges once he realized she had a taste for’em.”

“What about you?”

“There’s a reason I got out of submarines. You know that.”

She nods. “That’s about what I figured.”

He volunteers nothing about his earlier conversation and she does not ask. She gave him a job, and he did it. She is certain that he has not condemned their men to a week of alien tartare and that any additional terms were agreed to of his own volition. She has no right to ask.

But then he brings it up.

“Look, it’s not my business, but what are you playing at with the Reapers?”  
  
She swirls the water in her glass. “If I said a stronger alliance…”

“I’d say I know an ulterior motive when I see one.”

“I need a way to make Volk fall in line. I don’t get that kind of leverage without good intel.”  
  
“And the best intel comes face-to-face. You think you’ll get something out of him?”  
  
“No, but I think if you give soldiers the time and means to blow off steam, they’ll come back with better information than they realize.”

“Then what? Debrief everyone individually? Might blow your cover.”

 “I play enough cards and throw enough darts. It’s not that hard to get people talking.”

 “Not on this ship.”

\--

They have always had strategy meetings.

Once upon a time, they were formal things, around conference tables in office buildings, the kind of gathering whose purpose no one could dispute. Once they started traveling, those meetings became, by necessity, far less formal; a casual observer might have easily mistaken one for a date, a young couple abroad on some romantic getaway.

That all changed when XCOM activated, a stark turn towards late nights and casualty projections glaring at them from too bright screens, a grim ritual.

And now, the nature of those meetings has changed yet again.

She watches him dress from under the blankets: boxers, undershirt, shirt, slacks, belt, tie, watch, sweater. Her own clothes lay discarded on the floor nearby.

“Netherlands and Czech Republic have started taking notice. They’ve got their people reaching to see what’s out there.”

She nods. “Any more on New Zealand or Ireland?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t encourage New Zealand. Too much a risk bumping up against Australian intel.”

“And you think there isn’t that proximity with Ireland and the UK?”

“I think Ireland has a vested interest in keeping Westminster out of its business.”

“Fair,” she concedes.

“Bahrain and Jordan are also interested.”

“Bahrain? Did they even get hit?”

He shakes his head. “But they’d be a good partner.”

“I have … concerns.”

“Post-oil economy. They’re stable.”

“That’s not what’s giving me pause.”

He stops and looks at her. “You can’t afford to have moral qualms right now. If we’re approached by Saudi Arabia, you can’t turn them down.”

She knows he is right, that if their plan is going to work, they’ll need to be as well funded as possible. She holds no illusions about the moral rectitude of their current funding nations --- she does not get to pick and choose among atrocities.

“This didn’t bother you the first time around?”

“First time?” She asks, flipping over again. “First time, I was the messenger. It wasn’t my call. I was hired to do a job --- I knew I couldn’t convince the powers that be. But now it’s on me. _I’m_ the powers that be.”

“You have a responsibility to this organization. It’s not about you.”

“But it is! Leaders set the tone. They say ‘this is what we won’t stand for.’”

He lowers himself down next to her. “They also make choices they don’t like. They’re big picture people.”

“This all seemed so brilliant on paper.”

“Reality’s always messier. There’ll always be things you can’t avoid. You just do what you have to do to get by.”

“Sometimes, I hate when you’re right.”

“Welcome to being in charge,” he says, voice gentle.

She rolls her eyes. “And here I was, thinking it would be easier once we’d dealt with the aliens.”

“Easier? No. Different? Yes.”

She reaches up a hand, and brushes her finger against the stubble lining his jaw. He turns his head and presses a kiss to her palm. 

“You got through the Invasion,” he reassures her. “You’ll get through this.”

\--

They touch down in a clearing not far from the Reaper’s main camp and, briefly, she wishes for illness. She’s not sure what ever made her think this was a good idea, that she would be able to endure prolonged exposure to Volk. What was it her mother used to say?

 _The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior._  
  
She screws her eyes shut.

 _You did this to yourself_ , she thinks. _You dug the pit, you jumped in, and now this is your best way to claw your way out._

The ship’s engines die down and she draws in a breath. _Get off the train tracks, Regan_.

The problem is not yet imminent. She still has time to gather her composure and steel her temper against the coming confrontation.

  
There are checklists to be completed, inspections to be made, crates to be loaded and unloaded, supplies to be gathered. The dinner is a joint effort, a mutual demonstration – _or is it performance_? She muses– of their newly minted alliance.

She will make this work; she has no other option.

The scouting team is not expected back for another several days. She will avoid an incident for at least that long. She will find things to do. She will make herself useful. She will keep her head down, and give Central and the crew room to work. She will not sabotage this.

The phrase “ _responsibility to the organization”_ floats through her mind. She shakes her head. It sounds like something her father would say, or maybe Central --- maybe not this Central, but certainly the one she once knew, the one who she sometimes catches a glimpse of, fleeting as it may be.

She thinks he might be under there after all, if he could put the bottle down.

It’s a problem for another day.

Her eyes settle on the three hard drives stacked next to her terminal keyboard. She rises from her spot on the couch and picks them up, picking at the duct tape on the bottom of one.

There’s nothing especially important on the drives, nothing that will strengthen their position against ADVENT. There are no plans for a secret weapon, no emergency fallbacks.

But, she’d kill for some music. For all that sound carries on board the ship, it is still far too quiet for her tastes.

She makes her way from her quarters, down to Engineering. She almost feels silly asking, especially in the face of far more important work, but the drives don’t do anyone any good just sitting on her terminal, collecting dust or plugged into Central’s laptop.

Lily is busy tinkering with a GREMLIN when she enters. “Commander,” she offers, looking up.  
  
“I’ve got a favor to ask you. It’s not a priority.”

The Chief Engineer nods. “Alright.”

She sets the hard drives down on the worktable. “I know they’re old, but if you can pull the data off, I’d appreciate it.”

Lily picks one up and turns it over in her hands. “Any damage?”

“Not that I know of. I just don’t know if you can make the systems talk to each other.”

The younger woman nods. “It’s not hard. Give me a few days; I’ll get it done.”


	26. Twenty-Six

The first story breaks in the Buenos Aires press, a front page, side column feature about mysterious footage and documents depicting an attempted abduction in the city at the height of the Invasion.

There’s details from the leaked After Action Report, quotes from the aftermath of the initial attack, and follow up with survivors. It’s an article focused on the facts, backed up by a respectable bit of legwork, and blessedly free from the taint of sensationalism. It’s picked up quickly by the local news, and then the national. The wire services begin to circulate it shortly thereafter.

It’s a curiosity, not a headline, a reminder to the public that, despite the devastation, there were those who fought back, who did what they could to push back the incursion wherever the aliens appeared. It is a reminder that those who fought remain cloaked in intrigue, in governmental denial and official non-existence.  She wagers the story is enough to spark the demand for more --- nothing like a mystery to spark a readership’s curiosity.

Shen seems to agree, offering her a quiet nod of congratulations as it continues to spread.

The game is afoot.

“Commander,” Central greets her as she steps into Mission Control.

“Central. Anything interesting?”

“Dr. Vahlen would like to see you. She has concerns about recent events.”

Her heart stutters.  “Could you elaborate?”

“She’s concerned the research team’s work may not be secure.”

She draws in a small breath and lets it out slowly. _We still have time_ , she reassures herself. “Dr. Shen made it clear the intrusion didn’t impact weapons development work or interrogation logs.  That data is still secure.”

“Her concerns were more … academic in nature.”

The comment catches her off guard. “We won a war, and she’s worried about someone scooping her credit?”

“She’s of the opinion that the discoveries made over the course of the Invasion will lead to significant advances; she’d like to ensure her name, and the names of her people, are attached.”

She can’t say she’s unsympathetic. Academia has never been kind to women, particularly not to women in the hard sciences. She can’t argue Vahlen’s brilliance or skill in managing her department. They would never have survived the initial onslaught, let alone the full scope of the conflict, without the woman’s passion, dedication, and astonishing talent for assembling disparate scraps into a coherent analysis. There is no doubt in her mind that Vahlen is deserving of accolades; she had just hoped to keep their work out of the realm of ‘publish or perish.’

“Has Dr. Shen expressed similar concerns?”

“Dr. Shen’s primary concerns still revolve around the continued operation of our fire containment systems.”

She hopes none of the men on duty notice the way she tries to bite back a grin. “Keep an eye on things here. I’ll go try to reassure the good doctor.”

\--

She is running out of time. The scouting team is due back within the day, and she is still empty handed. She has nothing of use, save for the confirmation that she should absolutely not eat any meat offered to her.

It’s not for lack of trying. She has been out and about with the crew every night til late, regaled by their exploits.

They’ve made in-roads, certainly. There seems to be a budding, if mostly friendly, rivalry between the sharpshooters and their Reaper counterparts. Thomas has already been slapped by no fewer than three of their allies. No one, however, has dared to partake of the cuisine.

But, if they have uncovered anything of use, they have let to mention it in her presence.

She may be without recourse.

It is late and she is freshly dressed from an all too brief showers when the knock comes at her door.

“In!”

Central’s hands tremor, but there is a light in his eyes. “I think I got your intel.”

“What? How?”

He settles on her couch. “Sally’s a known quantity to enough of Volk’s people. They let a few more things slip around her than they really should.”

“I’m listening,” she says, sitting across from him.

“There’s a growing chunk of people who think Volk’s lost his way.”

“In deciding to work with us?”

“No. That thing that took Mox? The Reapers have their own, but officially, he doesn’t exist.”

“Why would ADVENT confirm it? They gain nothing.”

 Central shakes his head. “Not ADVENT. Volk. This thing shoots up their camps and slaughters their people, but he won’t hear talk of it, let alone addressing it.”

 “Why?”

“Rumor has it this thing used to be one of them.”

She weighs her next question carefully. “Is it true?”  
  
“Volk won’t talk about it with anyone, inside the Reapers or out. I’d say that gives the claim some weight, but I don’t have proof either way.”

“So, he lost one of his own and ADVENT’s using it against him. Now, his people are suffering for it and it’s wearing thin. Is that right?”  
  
“That’s the gist of it.”  
  
She can feel a grin spread across her face. “Dissent in the ranks. God, that’s gold. How’d you get it out of Sally?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“She volunteered?”

“Sort of. Might be fairer to say she runs her mouth if she’s playing a clean game of poker.”

“She know you overheard?”

“Who do you think she was playing against?”

 “So, things are better on that front.”

“They’re stable,” he says. “Less shouting.”

“That’s gotta be a relief.”

He lets out a sigh, and nods. “I don’t know if things will ever really be better, not after what I did. But I’ll take whatever improvements happen.”

“Life’s funny, John. You never know what’s coming.”

He meets her gaze for a moment, and she realizes what she’s said. It’s a level of familiarity, of intimacy she wasn’t intending to inject.

But, there it is. She can’t quite bring herself to regret it.

“Yeah, Lizzie. I guess you’re right.”

\--

  
There is a giggle and a knock at her office door. She sets aside the next batch of files to be released and locks her desk before responding to the summons.

Steph Royston stands before her, ruddy cheeked and pajama clad, a box in her hand.

“Ma’am! We’re gonna get Molchetti drunk off shitty boxed wine for my bachelorette! Come celebrate!”

She can’t help but laugh. “It seems you already started.”

Royston grins. “Bernard and I got into the gin. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“You are gonna be so hung over for your wedding.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve got til five o’clock tomorrow to pull myself together, then.”

Her eyes dart from Royston to her office door and then back. She has work to do, responsibilities to attend to. She can’t risk the momentum that’s begun to gather. She should stay in, should focus on the task at hand.

But it’s not every day that there is something to celebrate, let alone something as momentous as a wedding. It’s not every day she’s summoned from her professional duties to partake in some decidedly un-professional fun or that two people beat the odds to make a run at happily ever after.

_You’ve never thought twice about stopping to grieve. Is death somehow more worthy than life?_

“Alright,” she says. “Let’s go see you try to get Isabella to touch a drop of that stuff.”

Royston smirks. “Bernard thought I should put it in a bottle, but that seemed cruel.”

“You’re just gonna feed her box wine?’

“Oh, no. Devorah is.”

Looking back, she won’t be able to explain the sequence of events that leads them up, up, and out into the cold of the Kansas night. She suspects the wine played a part, yes, along with the revelation that Hershel had gone her entire life up until that point without once having ever thrown a snowball.

There they stand, under silent January stars, beginning to shiver as the cold bites through their coats. There is snow in their hair and blood in their cheeks. Hershel cackles and lobs another wintery projectile at her girlfriend, who retaliates in kind. Steph sits on the ground nearby, and raises a toast to the moon before flopping backwards onto the powder.

When the cold finally wins out, when they can no longer tolerate the sting of the air on their skin, they stumble back into the base. Central catches her eye with a look of fond admonishment. She offers him a terrible wink, and Steph covers her mouth in a futile attempt to suppress her laughter.

“Commander.”

“Central,” she grins.

She’s asleep when he crawls into bed that night, waking only when he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I can’t believe you broke protocol for that,” he says, quietly.  
  
She snuggles closer to him. “Hershel had never thrown a snowball. It seemed important to fix.”

“Certainly, a moral imperative.”

“You ready for tomorrow?”

“Are any of us?”  
  
She laughs. “Probably not.”  
  
\--

They are gathered in Volk’s tent —-herself, Central, Shen, Tygan, Volk, and Kate Starling, Volk’s second-in-command—as the scouting team, newly returned from the field reviews their findings.

The news is good -- better than she could have hoped for. Pratal Mox is being held in a nearby ADVENT detention facility, one that a skilled covert operative should be able to penetrate with little difficulty.

“That’s great,” Lily offers. “But the second we cut through the security protocols on that door, the whole region’s security grid will light up. We’d have to be in and out.”

“We’ll keep Firebrand on standby and arm everyone for a tough fight,” Central says. “It’s less security than we faced for Gatecrasher, and we still managed.”

She nods. “Right, Outrider, you’ll take point---“

“Oh, so you’re sending one of _my_ people to go rescue your precious Skirmisher. I hope this doesn’t turn out to be a waste of resources, Regan.”

She closes her eyes and draws in a breath, then opens them again. “Would the rest of you excuse Volk and I for a minute?”

The others rise and make their exits. Central offers her a small nod of encouragement.

“Volikov,” she says once she’s certain they are alone. “In twenty years, you’ve held ground. I’ll give you that. In your own little corner of the universe, you’ve traded some measure of your humanity to keep ADVENT at bay. I’m not here to pass judgment.”

“What we have now, though, is a chance to push back. To retake some of what should be ours. That means working as a team. You, me, the Reapers, the Skirmishers, anyone we can get on board. And if you can’t take your head out of your ass, play nicely, and support an alliance, then I will find someone here who can.”

“Are you threatening me, Regan?”

“I’m just saying that if you can’t act in the best interest of your people, I’m sure someone here can.”

“The best interest of my people? And what would you know about that?”  
  
“Only that you’ve got a chunk of your population who thinks you’re no longer operating in the best interest of their survival. Seems your boogeyman has too much blood on his hands for them to ignore --- unlike you.”

“You know noth---“

“I know your people are tired of you hiding your head in the sand, and pretending that you don’t have something stalking you. I know, when it comes to those things, you and the Skirmishers have more in common than you’d like to think. I know that all it takes is proof that someone else has a gun that’s every bit as good as yours, and a few whispers in the right ear.” She stands, and brushes a speck of dirt from her jacket. “You placed Dragunova under my command and, until such time as she expresses a desire to leave, she will remain under my command. We’ll get the Skirmisher back, and we’ll put a stop to that _thing_ with or without your help. But when we come marching back here with her head on a pike, I hope you’re ready to learn how loyal your people are.”

Volk stares silently up at her; she wonders if he sees the way she shakes.

“You better make sure you know damn well what you’re doing.”

“You should take your own advice. It’s my show, and I’ll run it the way I see fit.”

She turns, and makes her way out into the dark of the night. She finds her staff, along with Starling and Dragunova, gathered around a nearby campfire.

“We’ll move in the morning,” she says. “Dragunova, you’ll take point. We’ll send Kelly and Thomas for any close combat concerns, and Zaytsev in the event of needing medical care en route back. Starling,” she continues, turning her attention to the other woman. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve got Mox back. Thank your people again for me.”

Starling nods. “Understood.”

She falls in next to Central as they make their way back to the ship.

“And?” He asks, quietly.  
  
“That did it,” she offers, voice barely above a whisper. “As long as I didn’t sign us up for more than we can really handle.”  
  
“More than we can handle?”

“We’re gonna have to kill the Assassin.”

“We were gonna have to do that anyway.”

“We don’t even know where she is.”

“We’ll find her.”


	27. Twenty-Seven

John’s hand is warm on her back as they make their way towards the Mess. He’s in a suit, the first time he’s worn one since Moreno’s funeral. This is a much happier occasion and she takes no guilt in appreciating the way it flatters his build.

“I still can’t believe they wanted to get married here,” she says.

“Military-industrial brutalism isn’t your idea of a scenic venue?”

She laughs. “Not exactly.’

The space has been transformed, its long fluorescent lighting shut off in favor of what appears to be tastefully decorated torch lamps. Scores of LED candles line the aisle, and she’s almost certain there are small containers of bubble fluid under each chair. Potted nasturtiums flank the small, makeshift altar.

“How much of this did you know about?”

John shakes his head. “I don’t ask. I just sign off.”

Most of the combat personnel are already seated, save for a few conspicuous absences.

“Bernard’s officiating, but I don’t know where the rest of them are,” she says, sitting.

He looks down, checking his watch. “Don’t think we’ll have to wait long to find out.”

“I just hope whatever they’re planning is tasteful.”

“You’re concerned?”

She shifts. “I want Royston and Martin to have a nice peaceful ceremony.”

He reaches out, covering her hand with his. “Have a little faith,”

“Pukkila’s got something up his sleeve. Wouldn’t tell me what.”

John squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He pulls his hand back before anyone has the chance to notice --- a sensible precaution. She trusts that her people are indeed her people, yes, but gossip travels at an astonishing rate through the rank and file, and she’d rather minimize the risk of the Council discovering fraternization among the Command staff.

Even so, she misses his touch.

At five p.m. sharp, the floor lights dim to their lowest setting, and music begins from the speakers. She realizes after a beat that it is neither the Wedding March, nor anything approximating it. It is, instead, a cut of the theme to one of the Star Trek movies. She covers her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh. She can’t imagine how they’d ever come to that selection.

Bernard makes his way down first, followed by Lan and Pukkila, then Hershel and Molchetti.

The hair on the back of her neck prickles, a sure sign of psionic energy. As she looks around the room, she realizes that the candles that had previously been on the floor now hover in mid-air, held aloft by tendrils of purple energy, courtesy of XCOM’s psi ops. She’s not sure how they ever managed to keep the secret; there’s no doubt in her mind there had been some sort of substantial bribe or, perhaps, a particularly compelling threat. 

The happy couple enter and stop dead for a moment to stare in wonder and delight --- to Pukkila’s obvious satisfaction --- before continuing their way down the makeshift aisle, hand-in-hand.

They reach the front and the music fades. Bernard’s solemn stare cracks into a wide grin.  
  
“ _Mesdames_! _Messieurs_! _Amis_! Please, sit.”

\--

For all the pomp and circumstance involved in the abduction, she had been expecting a facility somehow more imposing than the one before them. She’s stunned by the seemingly laissez-faire approach to security and finds herself somehow doubting that the Assassin values her prey so little.

“This is it?” She asks, disbelieving. “This is their entire complement?”

“You’d like something a little more rigorous?” Central drawls. “Not enough of a challenge for Menace?”

She shakes her head. “No, but nothing screams ‘trap’ like something that’s this simple.”

“We don’t know what’s coming once we cut through that door.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Outrider slips in the first set of doors, and she tenses, waiting for something awful to appear on the video feed.  
  
But nothing does.

The Reaper makes her way over towards an open terminal, and quickly peruses its contents.

“Asset located,” she says, voice low.

“Move to acquire. Let’s go get him back and get home.”

There’s a kind of elegance to Dragunova, one born of experience and self-assurance. She blends in well with the shadows of the facility, seeming to revel in their cover. Her personal distaste for Volk aside, the Commander can admit there’s much XCOM could learn from his people.

Dragunova stops before one of the cell doors and pulls out a datapad. She toys with it for a moment and the door slides open.

  
The facility’s security grid springs to life and Menace opens fire on the nearby ADVENT personnel.

On screen, she can make out Mox, battered but conscious, on the floor of the cell. Dragunova bends down and wraps an arm around the Skirmisher’s waist, hauling to him to his feet.

The fracas outside intensifies.

“Outrider, no pressure, but there are dropships in bound.”

“Understood.”

Sure enough, one of ADVENT’s ships appears over the treeline making, making its way towards the assembled forces The doors open and two large MECs descend.

“Ma’am,” Wallace’s voice cuts in. “We don’t have the gear to handle two of them.”

“Outridrer,” she begins. “Some pressure. We’ve got two MECs on the ground that are going to be a serious impediment if you can’t get out quickly.”

“He’s not light!”

“ETA?”

“Five minutes! They’ll have to hold.”

“Menace, you’re gonna have to dig in. Keep low, keep behind cover, don’t take shots unless you’re damn sure you’re gonna connect.”

She dares a glance over at Central, whose eyes have not strayed from the video feeds. “Come on, come on,” he mutters. “Almost there."

She rests a hand on his forearm, watching as Wallace launches a grenade into one of the MECs, shredding its armor.  Zaytsev and Thomas open fire, finishing the job.

The other continues its advance.

“Dragunova, that window is getting awfully slim.”

The remaining MEC fires a hail of bullets, peppering the crates Menace has taken cover behind. Wallace risks a return volley, but barely manages to scratch the surface.

“Requesting immediate evac,” Dragunova calls, striking a flare.

“You heard the lady, move!” Central says, leaning forward to wrap his fingers around the Hologlobe’s handrail.

Firebrand drops the first lines, pulling Mox and Outrider safely onboard.

The MEC fires a grenade towards the evac zone, exploding a nearby forklift.

“Time’s up!” The Commander calls. “Let’s go!”

Zaytsev, Thomas, and Wallace dash towards the charred ground as the MEC readies another shot. She squeezes her eyes shut, and waits for the familiar sound of death.

Instead, it’s Firebrand’s voice in her ear. “Package is secure and all XCOM operatives are on board. Returning to base.”

She looks up at the screen and fights the urge to laugh. She’s not amused, not really, but relief is a strange thing, one that finds its way out in funny forms. She relaxes her grip on Central’s arm, but doesn’t move her hand, wanting reassurance that this is real, that they have actually managed to steal Mox back. She’s come to expect that the floor will fall out from under her, and can’t quite believe it is solid beneath her feet.

She turns to smile at Central, and finds him grinning back at her.

\--

“And, with the authority vested in me by having blown up an Ethereal, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Steph yanks Edouard down into a kiss and he dips her low, leaving the room to explode in cheers. Bubbles float through the air as they exit up towards the Common Room, the rest of the bridal party and guests following after.

It’s a loud and joyful processional down the corridor and up the stairs. She takes advantage of the cover to thread her fingers through John’s and squeeze. Neither of them had made it through the ceremony dry-eyed, but she’s certain they’re in the majority.

Upstairs, the air hums with music and life. Bernard has taken his customary place behind the bar, a bottle of champagne in hand. He summons the newlyweds forth and directs them to stand before the dart board, an appropriate distance back.

Steph undoes the foil and cage before passing it back to Edouard, who closes his eyes and gives the cork a firm shove with this thumbs, sending the projectile dead into the dart board’s bullseye as champagne spills forth.

Next to her, John cringes. “They couldn’t have done that on the range?”

“Even Shen has limits.”

Steph and Edouard seem more relaxed than she’s seen them in weeks. Steph’s shoulders have lost some of their customary tension and Edouard’s smile actually travels up to meet his eyes. They’re here and they’re together; they’ve done it. They’ve well-earned this celebration.

The alcohol flows and the music continues on; it’s really no surprise that dancing follows after.

The happy couple manage to duck the traditional public first dance, instead opting to remain firmly rooted to their bar stools.  She sees her opportunity and takes it.  
  
“Martin, Royston --- wait, are you still Royston?”

Steph nods. “Having two Martins running around would be too confusing.”

“I see you’ve taken pity on me.”

“More for Central’s sake,” Edouard says. “We cause him enough trouble.”

She grins. “Fair. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it, too.”

“I’ve got a feeling you’re not here to ask about last names, ma’am,” Steph says.

She bites her bottom lip for a moment. “How much did you two bribe the Mess Hall personnel to keep all the silverware locked up? Because there’s neither fork nor knife in sight, and there’s no way you two didn’t plan that.”

Edouard lets out a bark of laughter. “You aren’t so sneaky, Steph.”

The bride shrugs. “It’s entirely possible I owe Central a huge favor.”

“’I just sign off,’ my ass,” the Commander mutters. 

“He didn’t really say that,” Edouard insists.

“No, he did. About five minutes before you two walked down the aisle.”

Steph bursts out laughing. “Bullshit, ma’am. Bullshit.”

Eventually, she makes her way back to John, finding him overlooking the whole scene from the second level.

“Needed a breather?” She asks.

“Sometimes, you’ve just gotta take a minute and step back to appreciate it all.”

She reaches for his hand, and he knots his fingers with hers.

“It doesn’t feel real sometimes, you know. All of this. Everything we went through,” he says. “The base, the temple ship, the attack here.”

“You ever regret signing on?”

“Never,” he answers. “No one else I would’ve rather faced the end with. You?”

“Never.”

He leans over and catches her in a kiss, one interrupted only by Pukkila’s drunken shock. “Holy fuck!”

 _Oh, brother_.

\--

Standing on the balcony overlooking the Bridge, she can feel the warmth radiating off of her second-in-command.

“I think we should do something to celebrate,” she offers. “We had a clean win. We’re not gonna get a lot of those.”

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your optimism.”

She chuckles. “I’ve always been a realist. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and I’m afraid of what Tygan’s going to find when he finishes his analysis of that vial. Eat, drink, and be merry; who knows when we’ll get a win this simple again.”

“Like I said: you always were the optimist.”

“Think of it as an opportunity for a little crew bonding,” she counters. “We want our people to play nicely together, we’ve gotta give them a chance to blow off steam together. Considering that one of them is now, technically, an alien, a little inducement might be necessary. A party would do just that.”

“Or lead to a brawl that wrecks the bar.”

“Now who’s the optimist?”

“Alright, you got me there.”

She dimples up at him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“How would you like that list organized?”

They set down outside the ruins of Vancouver that evening, far enough outside of a city center to risk an evening of some fun. She draws up a schedule, cycling people from the Bridge to the party and back in shifts. It’s partly to ensure someone keeps an eye on things, and partly to limit the drinking. She hopes it will be enough.

The Avenger’s complement gathers in the bar that night, boozing and chatting. She is surprised to see Mox and Wallace already growing comfortable with one another, and even more shocked to watch as Outrider commands Thomas’s undivided attention. Sally seems to have roped the newest recruits into some kind of card game, one that appears to be blessedly free of any gambling mechanic. Central drinks, yes, but it is only beer.

All seems to be going well until the DJ launches into another one of his death metal impressions. The bar erupts in a chorus of shouting and a dart wedges itself into the nearest speaker.

“Alright, alright. Settle down!” She yells. “Keep the damn darts to the board.”

“He’s awful, Commander,” Zaytsev insists.

  
“You want something better?”

“What, are you going to sing for us?” Thomas smirks.

“No, Thomas. I think we’d all prefer to hear your dulcet tones.” She presses a finger to her comm. “Shen, are we all set?”

“It’s all there, Commander. Should be accessible from your data pad.”

“Thank you. Much obliged.”

She turns her attention to the device net to her and gestures through the screens. She offers a final confirmation in the form of a resolute tap and Bruce Springsteen’s lonely harmonica sounds forth from the speakers.

Next to her, Central lets out a low whistle, and raises his bottle in a toast.

“Oh my god,” a voice pipes up. It’s one of their newest, a young woman named Hagen. “My dad used to sing this.”

Zaytsev turns in his seat and extends a hand towards Kelly. “Jane?”

She grins. “You better to be keep up, Oleg.”

A few of the engineers take the opportunity to follow suit. Then Wallace gets Sally to abandon her game with a grin so earnest the Commander can’t believe such a thing exists outside of bad teen movies.

“How’d you do it?” Central asks.

“You pulled my hard drives. Shen got the data off them, moved it onto the Avenger’s systems. Anyone with a datapad has access.”

He chuckles and rolls the bottom of the empty beer bottle along the bar’s surface, contemplating something. “You wanna dance?”  
  
“I’m still not much of a follow.”

“Probably not much of a lead these days.”  
  
She slides off the stool. “Come on. I don’t think we can fuck this up too badly.”


	28. Twenty-Eight

The news does not travel outside of Strike One, a fact for which she is grateful. She suspects Royston and Martin played no small hand in its containment They, of all people, can appreciate the desire a for degree of privacy, even in the face of poorly considered choices.

That being said, she isn’t entirely sure how she feels about the bottle of champagne and box of condoms left outside the door to her quarters. On one hand, she appreciates the sentiment; she knows a _congratulations_ when she sees one. On the other, she’s given her soldiers entirely too much leverage.

John stares at the bottle in mute shock.

“It could be worse,” she offers, patting his arm. “It’s good champagne.”

“And the condoms?”

She shrugs. “At least they didn’t pelt us with them.”

“Didn’t they actually do that to Martin?”

“About a week after Royston got out of the psi lab. It was their way of congratulating the two on, and I quote, ‘finally getting their godforsaken act together.’”

John chuckles. “Now I remember. Right before the attack in Munich.”

“Morning of,” she says. “Talk about whiplash.”

“I’m glad to put those days behind us.”

“You and me both.”

She spends her morning preparing another batch of leaks, redacting what she needs to, ensuring the salient information stands out. It’s delivered before lunch and she gleans no small amount of satisfaction from its contents.

On quiet days like this, she lets her mind wander toward the future, toward what happens after the six-month mark.

There are still variables, still plenty of reasons not to let her hopes settle on anything too grand. There is so much to be accounted for, still so many things that could still go awry.

She’s looking forward to a vacation somewhere far far away from Kansas. She’s heard Istanbul has recovered well enough from its attacks, that the Blue Mosque is as lovely as ever and the Grand Bazaar as much a treat. She could drink herself silly on apple tea, sit in the sunlight and eat simit in the morning with the street cats.

She and John could actually see the city.

John.

He raises a series of questions on his own. Questions about living arrangements, and work, and the questions her parents will inevitably press her with about dates and rings and _are you really sure, Elizabeth_? They’re questions she doesn’t have answers to. 

She doesn’t need them, though. Not yet.

At heart, she is a planner. She excels at seeing the big picture and backtracking from it. She could cite her upbringing or her schooling or some combination thereof, but in truth, she likes the illusion of being able to account for the unpredictability of life.

Except John has always embodied that unpredictability.

She hadn’t expected the dry sense of humor or the willingness to flout the spirit of a directive while still obeying it to the letter. The farm boy Naval officer had thrown her off from the get go, and she’d come to love him for it.

She doesn’t entirely know what the future holds for them once they are relieved of their responsibilities. They could end up anywhere, doing almost anything.

The only she’s certain of is that they’ll be together.

And, for now, that’s enough.

\--

They are half an hour out from their rendezvous with the Skirmishers and their leader. She has been briefed, both by Central and by Mox. She is well-informed and well-prepared.

She wishes her brain would stop sending the panic signal to the rest of her body.

She wants to believe that, after Volk, her meetings with the other faction leaders can only be positive experiences in comparison. She wants to believe that she will find a temperate and reasonable leader, one uninterested in power games.

She wants to believe it will not be an unmitigated disaster.

But, there are inescapable truths. A Skirmisher was captured on her watch. While she did everything in her power to recover him expediently, and has done what she can to ensure he integrates with the rest of the crew, it does not change the fundamental nature of the fact that there is no reason for Betos --or any of her people for that matter-- to trust her.

She braces herself for a deservedly chilly reception.

By the time they land, she has absolutely convinced herself that the alliance will be dead-on-arrival, a vote of no-confidence in her leadership.

As she and Central make their way towards the meeting point, her fingers brush against his. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance before letting it go again.

She hopes her nerves do not telegraph as plainly as she fears.

Ahead of them, Kelly chides Thomas for a tasteless joke, Behind them, Zaytsev and Moon discuss the odds of a planned game of poker.

She hopes some of their calm will rub off.

The Skirmisher camp is built to move. She’s reminded of the images of MASH units from Korea: easily and rapidly disassembled.

“Commander!” A voice calls. “It is good to see you.”

A Skirmisher makes her way towards the party. Her demeanor is warm and she seems genuinely pleased to see them.

“I am Betos.”

The Commander extends her hand. “I understand I owe you and your followers my sincerest thanks.”

  
“Not followers and certainly not mine,” Betos smiles. “But you are most certainly welcome. I am glad your recovery was successful.”

They make introductions, all smiles and handshakes. Even Thomas behaves himself, to the Commander’s enormous relief. There is something about Betos that seems to put people at ease.

“I understand we also owe you thanks.”

She furrows her brow. “What for?”

“You recovered Mox before any harm could come to him. The Assassin has slaughtered many of our kind.”

She shakes her head. “Mox was captured on my watch; it was my fault he was captured in the first place. I owed it to him, and to you, to at least try to bring him back safely.”

“There are others who would not have shared that sentiment.“

She shifts, considering her words for a moment. “I know all too well what ADVENT is capable of. I couldn’t have knowingly left someone. The Skirmishers took a risk for me; it was only fair I return the favor.”

“Commander Regan, I believe we will work well together.”

\--

Once again, she finds herself sitting the small conference room off of the labs, Vahlen standing before her, datapad in hand.

John squirms in his seat, visibly nervous.

“Please tell me you have good news.”

“Perhaps not precisely good, but not entirely bad, either,” Vahlen says. “The bloodwork on all active duty combat personnel showed no trace of the nanites we observed in the blood samples collected from the civilian population.”

She feels some of the tension drain from her shoulders. “Doctor, I’d say that counts as pretty fantastic news.”

“For our immediate purposes, yes. It may also shed some insight on how the nanites work.”

“Could you elaborate?”

She nods. “Currently, m team believes that the nanites work as a kind of network to overcome the body’s defensive response. At low exposure, they are unable to generate enough of a network to combat the immunoreaction, and are easily overcome. They are disabled and filtered out from the bloodstream to be excreted from the body.”

“And at higher exposures?”

“The nanites’ ability to network increases exponentially, allowing them to effectively overpower the body’s counteroffensive.”

“Sort of like a technologically-assisted HIV.”

“Not entirely dissimilar, though we aren’t certain of the precise methods at this time.”

“Could you speculate on exposure needed to reach that point?”

“I’m afraid our data is currently insufficient.”

The Commander nods, settling back in her seat. “It’s still your belief that there is a relationship between the bods and the nanites.”

“Indeed.”

She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “If I understand you correctly, Vahlen, unless we can either find a countermeasure or disable the pods, we’re sitting on a massive health crisis, one that we are entirely unprepared to handle.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She draws in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “You weren’t kidding about ‘not precisely.’” She gnaws on her bottom lip. “I appreciate the update, and please extend my continued thanks to your team. Keep working at it. Let me know if you need additional support. I know virology and immunology weren’t major considerations in initial staff selection.”

“Understood, Commander.”

She nods. “Thanks, Vahlen. Dismissed.”

The woman nods, and makes her exit.

The Commander buries her face in her hands.

“They’re not gonna find a countermeasure, are they?” John asks after he’s sure the door has shut.

She looks up. “Not quickly, in any case. Our best hope is Shen and his team. If they can find a way to disable the pods, we might just squeak by. Which would have been a lot easier if I had done my job from the start.”

“Don’t go there. We’ve gone over this, Lizzie. Your priority had to be on the threat at hand. We didn’t have time to focus on anything else.”

“I should have known it couldn’t be that easy. They had the jump on us from the start. I should have figured they had a backup plan.”

“You’re not a clairvoyant. You can’t see everything.”

“Let’s just hope Shen and his team can figure it out.”

“If they could build the Firestorm, they can disable the pods.”

\--

She waits for the bottom to fall out, for the budding alliance to crumble. They spend days among the Skirmishers, getting to know them, getting to see how they operate. She insists on the crew’s participation.

She expects some resistance. She is braced for it from some of those among her ranks. Their allies look no different from the Troopers unleashed on havens and embedded in cities, the cogs and gears of the aliens’ rule. She can’t blame those who look at the partnership with skepticism, or even outright disdain.

But they can’t afford it. Not if they want to win.

“Commander,” Lily says, pulling her aside. “Are you sure this is really a good idea? I mean, they _were_ ADVENT.”

“I appreciate your concern, Shen, and I can understand why you’d have reservations.”

“But?”

“But their chips are out, and they’ve done what they can to counter ADVENT. They’ve got a years-long track record.”

“We don’t know what kind of conditioning ADVENT put them through.”

“You’re right; we don’t. But the thing that took Mox certainly seemed bent on their destruction. I can’t offer you hard proof, but that seems like good circumstantial evidence that our alien overlords are none too pleased.”

“I hope you’re right, ma’am.”

“Lily, I’m not asking you to go out and make friends, but I’d appreciate even a small overture.” She sighs. “But if you really can’t, I understand.”

The engineer considers this. “They’re gonna be on the ship, aren’t they?”

“Mox will. I can’t speak to anyone else.”

“I want them kept out of Engineering. And away from the power core.”

“I can keep them out of your workspace, but lots of them were trained for other labor in addition to combat. There’s been talk of borrowing hands and know-how to help clear out the sublevels and in getting facilities built faster. It would free up your people to work on more important projects.”

“How do you know we can trust them?”

It’s a valid question, one to which Lily, of all people, has the right to a cogent and well-reasoned answer. Though she’d had to press him for it, Central had told her the story of Raymond Shen’s demise and its effect on his daughter, who has come to view the world as a kind of trap, ready to spring.

“I’ll make you a deal. Come, make a few introductions, meet a few of their people. If you’re still concerned after that, I’ll hold off.”

Lily eyes her. “Alright. Fine.”

“Thank you.”

She reports back sometime later, visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t like them, but I don’t think they’re a threat.”

“Satisfied, Chief?”

She nods. “Satisfied. I still don’t want them in my workspace, though.”

“Understood.”

“Anything else, Commander?”

“No, Chief. Dismissed.”

Lily turns and heads back toward Engineering.

“Wait! Shen!’  
  
She stops short and turns around. “Commander?”

“Thank you. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

“Just make sure it’s worth it.”

“I intend to.”


	29. Twenty-Nine

She is making tea in the small kitchenette off the Common Room when Martin taps her on the shoulder. “You’ve seen the news this morning, yes?” He asks.

She shakes her head.  
  
“You might want to look before you actually start your shift, ma’am.”

“Is it bad?” She asks.

“It’s … you’ll want to read it.”

She pulls out the tea ball and sets it on her plate, then opens her datapad A few taps bring her to the latest headlines.

Her university ID photo grins up at her.

She looks at Martin, who seems almost sheepish. “Steph and I thought you should know, if you didn’t already.”

“Is it an okay story?”

“Researcher and biosecurity expert leads shadowy organization to save world. Everyone else baffled.”

She snorts a laugh. “That’s factually accurate.”

 “I was surprised they got as much about you as they did.”

“My grad students tended to be a chatty bunch.”

“That’s the nature of graduate students, ma’am.”

“True,” she concedes. “I’m guessing it wasn’t very informative for any of you, though.”

“No, but I suspect you’re in for a busy day.”

She groans. “On that front, I expect you’re right.”

She holds off on opening her emails until she has finished her first cup of tea. She knows that, barring more pressing matters, attending to them will consume the majority of her day.

Some are expected: Her parents, Weir, Tanya.

There are a few surprises, too: Some of her former professor, a few colleagues, Peter Van Doorn.

She’ll deal with them later.

Mission Control buzzes.

“You’ve finally hit the big time, ma’am!”

“Settle down, Po,” she counters. “This isn’t a good thing.”

Except for the part where it very much is --- but she has no intention of alerting the staff to that fact.

“Anything of note from first shift?”

“No, ma’am,” Gupta answers. “All readings within normal range.”

“Energy spikes?”

“No more activity than what we’ve come to take as the baseline.”

“Excellent,” she says, settling down at her desk. “Let’s just hope it stays that way.”

She begins working her way through her inbox. The letter to her parents is long, but not overly complex. Of all people, they understand the covert nature of certain international undertakings; if anything, they seem more taken aback by her ability to keep it under wraps. Weir and Tanya are both shocked, quite possibly appalled. She can’t say either reaction is unexpected.

Her former colleagues are harder. She left on good terms, yes, but she is not sure how to address their questions. Somehow, she suspects _I got out and you can too_ is not the reply they really want.

Then there are the media requests. Even from her initial perusal, their number has grown. She considers making a list of the requesting outlets, and evaluating their extant reporting on the threat; she thinks better of it, though, remembering that the Council will likely have an opinion on the matter.

She can’t blow their cover yet.

\--

She spends the majority of their visit in conference with Betos, Mox, and Central, crafting a plan to address the issue of the Assassin.

“She has slain far too many of our kind,” Betos says. “With your help, we may finally be able to put an end to her butchery once and for all.”

“She’s a threat as long as she’s alive,” the Commander offers. “Putting her down is a priority for us all.”

When they lift off a few days later, it is without Mox and Dragunova, who remain behind to begin scouting prelimary leads on the monster’s whereabouts.

Up in the air that night, she slides into the console next to Central, taking advantage of the quiet first shift to debrief.

“I think that went well,” she begins. “What’s your read?”

He nods, his eyes never straying from the screen. She can smell the alcohol on him, but he doesn’t seem drunk and his hands do not have their customary tremor. “I think they’ve kept every promise they’ve made. It’s encouraging.”

“But?”

“It would have been nice to have had some warning about that _thing_.”

“Mmmm,” she drawls. “Can’t argue with you there. I don’t think they were acting in bad faith, though.”

“Neither do I. But I still think we’re our own best resource.”

She offers him a small smile, even if she’s not certain he can see it. “Yeah, but it’s always nice to have someone watching your back.”

He seems to know she’s not just talking politics anymore.

“Go to bed, ma’am,” he says and she swears there’s a warmth to his voice. “Second shift comes sooner than you think.”

She rises from her spot and gently pats his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, mom.”

He snorts. “Smartass.”

“You missed me.”

He shoots her a look that says all it needs to.

She makes it halfway through her shift before she’s forced to rouse him, rapping smartly on the side of his bunk when she can’t reach him over the comms.

“Commander?” He asks, groggy. “Time is it?”

“Time to get up. Tygan and Shen are about to complete their analysis on that vial. I want the full senior staff in attendance.”

He groans. “Gimme a minute.”

“You’ve got five. They’re finishing some last minute prep, and then we’ll clear the Bridge.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he mumbles.

No one is really prepared for the horror they find.

“In my worst nightmares, I would never have imagined…” Tygan’s voice trails off.

She can already see where this is going, but it’s clear Central doesn’t. “Doctor…?”

“I believe we have found the missing civilians,” Tygan says.

Lily chimes in and together they lay it bare for him, the systematic slaughter of millions.

“It’s genocide, Doctor. And these people are walking right into it!” The engineer spits. She turns her attention to the keyboard in front of her, mumbling something about tracking the vial’s intended location.

Satellite images of an ADVENT facility appear on the screen. “It’s a high-security production facility. Standard defensive complement,” she says, turning her attention back towards the other senior staff.

“Alright,” the Commander nods. “Central, adjust our course. Tygan, Shen, see if you can get us any additional information on what’s going on. I’ll pull together a team.”

The others seem placated, but she wonders if they’re really prepared for whatever awaits.

\--

She has never heard the Spokesman sound so unsettled.

“As you can imagine, Doctor, the Council finds this matter deeply troubling.”

He, in fact, sounds more unsettled than when she’d called, battered and bruised, to inform him of the attack on the base.

She takes no small amount of umbrage at this matter.

“The Council?” She asks. “How do you think I feel?”

She hopes her outrage does not read as blatantly performative. She can’t have things fall apart now.

“It’s my life they went through,” she continues. “My history. I appreciate the Council’s concern on this matter, but the Council has remained well outside of the public eye.”

She considers that particular decision for a moment. On one hand, she knows it is unwise to taunt the ones who hold their funding hostage; on the other, she’d give almost anything to see them panic.

Almost being the operative word. They are still a long way from self-sufficiency. The Fog Pods remain a threat. This is no time for petty games of vengeance.

“Have Dr. Shen and his team completed their analysis?”

“They have,” she nods. “They can find no outstanding vulnerabilities in our systems nothing that should have allowed for such a breach of data to occur.”

“Have they determined the scope of the breach?”

“Yes, and unfortunately, it’s wide. A significant cache of files related to interrogations and operations was accessed and copied. While all of our data remains intact, it is safe to say whoever accessed our system likewise copied uncorrupted versions of the files.”

The Spokesman’s jaw tightens.

“You’ll be happy to know, however, that logs related to Council related ops were stored separately and were unaffected.”

The man on the screen seems unimpressed.

“You should know,” she presses on, undeterred, “that I’ve begun to receive media requests. Several high profile outlets are interested in learning more. I have opinions on how to proceed with this matter, but felt it was ultimately the Council’s decision.”

“We will review them,” the Spokesman glowers. “In the meantime, we will be in touch.”

The screen flickers to black, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. Even with the upper hand, the calls are still stressful. She wants nothing more than to pull John aside and debrief him while her impressions are still fresh, but she is all too aware of how that will appear.

She reminds herself to be grateful that, so far, their plan seems to be working. They’re beginning to gain traction in the press, and the Council seems to believe the leak is external interference.

They’re playing the game with the best of them.

She makes her way back to Mission Control with her head high, and her shoulders square. She knows that there is still so much beyond her control: the Fog Pods, the nanites, the energy spikes.

But, she trusts her team. She trusts that they will find a solution.

They made it through the war; they will make it through this.

\--

The universe sees fit to buy them time after all.

Unfortunately, it does so with a systems intrusion.

“Commander,” Central says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m too old to start believing in ghosts.”

“I’ve never gotten the sense that ghosts are really fond of technology,” she muses. “ _Poltergeist_ aside.”

“You really wanna make jokes now?” He asks, more exasperated than anything else.

“After finding out what was in that vial, I’ll take whatever opportunities I can. What are Shen’s thoughts on it?”

“She’s got nothing. She and her dad built this place back from the ground up; no one should know the systems the way they do.”

“But someone does, and I’d like to find out who. Preferably before we get knocked out of the skies.”

“You always were a nervous flyer.”

“Always will be, but it beats walking.”

“You wouldn’t like subs any better.”

She shudders. “Don’t even joke.”

“Who’s joking?”

She shakes her head. “If Shen is in the dark, then we all are. Does she have any leads?”

“She’s got a signal, and she can trace its source. It’ll take a couple of days, though.”

“Then we’ll take the couple of days. If there’s any chance ADVENT’s behind this, then I’d rather not head towards those coordinates we pulled from the vial unless I know we’re guaranteed a way out. I don’t want our asses on the aliens’ doorstep if I can avoid it.”

“You’re worried it’s sabotage.”

“Come on, you have to admit: the timing’s funny. We pull the ship’s computer in on the analysis and less than twenty-four hours later, we’ve got some unknown person or thing in our systems.”

“Think it’s someone on board?”

“I doubt it. More likely a failsafe … if it’s tied to the vial at all. That’s just speculation on my part, though. All the evidence I’ve got is circumstantial. Thoughts?”

“ADVENT’s a bunch of arrogant bastards. They don’t think to build for ‘what if.’ They don’t believe in the worst case scenario because they don’t think anyone’ll ever rise up to challenge them. Not seriously. Something’s going on, but I’d be shocked if they’re behind it. Would’ve required them to acknowledge their own fallibility.”

“When has anyone in power ever been any good at that?”

“You have your moments.”

“Only because the powers that be keep finding ways to remind me of it.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“Tell Shen to start her scans, but to keep a close eye on things. We should try to isolate the rest of the ship as much as we can. We safe to put down here while we wait?”

“It’s defensible, but I’m not sure any where is really safe if the aliens decide they want to drop in.”

“We’re far enough back from any havens?”

“If we get hit, I don’t think we’ll catch anyone in our crossfire.”

“Alright. Let’s go find our boogeyman.”


	30. Thirty

She commands, and commands, and commands and then she sleeps, but even then, the cycle repeats. The Avenger or the Anthill, the Fog pods or the Chosen, the Council or ADVENT: binary pairs, variations on a theme she can’t escape.

It’s the brief adjustment period that still startles her, a disquieting confusion about where and when she is, memories of a life unlived still fresh in her mind.

It’s better when John is there, when she can ground herself in the steady rise and fall of his chest, the feeling of his fingers on her skin, the smell of his soap in her nose. It is gentler, then.

  
The mornings alone are the worst. No matter where she wakes, there is a profound feeling that it is wrong, even as her surroundings buoy her towards a sense of place, visual landmarks steeped in familiarity.

The ship or the subterrain, she takes comfort, at least, in the small simple fact that the face that meets her gaze in the mirror is always the same. Small mercies.

It’s not the disorientation so much that bothers her –not anymore– but the lingering notion that something is off. She considers herself to be well-grounded in reality; the daily reminder that she may not be, that stress, or the tank, or _something_ has left that sense forever impaired is what truly bothers her about the process. Most days, it fades without fanfare, like coming to from a dream.

Most, but not all.

\--

Of the possibilities she had not properly accounted for, her soldiers reading her work ranks near the top,

“So, this is why they picked you,” Molchetti gestures towards her screen. “I always wondered.”

“I can’t believe you guys are actually reading my papers.”

“Why wouldn’t we?’

“Because you _lived_ them?”

“We did not live you theories on agricultural security in bioterror events.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Oh god, that’s an early one. Why would you read that?”

“Everyone else is.”

Molchetti, unfortunately, speaks the truth. Her life before XCOM has become a topic of scrutiny for the press, barring any concrete details on her existence since March 1, 2015. She is torn between a vague sort of pride in her work receiving so much attention, and a strong desire to direct that attention towards almost anything else. She feels as if she’s been subjected to a second defense, one at which she is unable to speak, and must only watch as her work is judged by those not truly qualified to evaluate it.

“I know this is what we wanted,” she admits to John over dinner. “But it’s more than a little uncomfortable.”

“It’s been generally good press.”

“Generally?”

“You weren’t really expecting friends at Fox News, were you?”

She laughs. “Not with my publication history.”

“Your publication history, your conference presentations, your commentary. None of it.”

“Tell me someone called me a coastal elite.”

“You’re not getting that kind of attention from them. Who knows, though? Maybe they’ll dig something else up.”

\--

The whole mission has spiraled out of control. An abandoned ADVENT facility in the middle of the tropics under the control of a sentient AI initially designed by Raymond Shen would be bad enough, but the addition of Lily’s presence on the field adds another level of unneeded stress. An endless supply of mechs, however rusted, and a forced reliance upon single passenger freight lifts hardly help the situation.

But, of all things, the AI seems to know them, and it seems to be doing its damnedest to find a way under Central’s skin.

“Are you still there, Bradford? I was beginning to wonder if you’d finally drowned yourself in the liquor.”

She watches his hands tighten into fists.

“Menace,” she instructs. “Keep pushing.”

The team has done well, all things considered. They have taken a few wounds, mostly minor, and they’ve kept Lily safe. They only need to find an escape route and, with any luck, disable this Julian character for good.

“Getting tired yet, Central? You’re an old man with one foot in the grave. I wonder why these people put up with you.”

Sally freezes for a moment, her hands hovering over her console.

“Fuck off, you glorified toaster!” Kelly yells.

“Look at them, so willing to defend you,” Julian purrs. “Do they know the blood on your hands? I’ve seen the world you’ve built, and frankly, it’s below even my expectations.”

She watches him reach for his flask, then think better of it, hands coming to grip the Hologlobe’s rails.

Menace advances, making their way towards a chamber at the far end of the room.

“And here I thought you would have run after her, Central. Or are some lives just more valuable than others? You’ve always played fast and loose, haven’t you?”

“Ignore him,” she orders, though she’s not sure if the edict is meant for those onboard the Avenger or off.

“It really would have been better to have just turned yourself in. Think of the lives you would have spared in the _two decades_ it took you to find your _precious_ Commander. And for what? You have to know you can’t win this.”

The ground team makes their way up a flight of stairs towards the smaller room.

“Oh, yes, ADVENT may fall. But have you considered that there is worse to come? Or hasn’t she told you?”

Her heart stutters in her chest. She has no idea what Julian is on about, but the last thing she needs is for Central to believe she’s keeping secrets. They have both worked so hard to mend things. She can’t have them shatter again.

“I really must thank Father,” Julian drawls. “It seems he really _was_ the only competent one at XCOM.”

“Will somebody shut him up?” Central growls.

On screen, Lily makes her way towards an enormous robotic chassis. It springs to life at her touch, diverting Julian’s attention.

She uses the brief respite to take stock of the Bridge crew. They are universally uncomfortable, uncertain of how to respond to Julian’s taunts. While she has no idea what the mad AI could be on about in terms of something worse to come, even she’s forced to concede its comments to Central have all carried a grain of truth; it’s what allows them to cut so deeply, after all.

Sally watches her guardian with concern writ large on her face, as if she were waiting for something to break. His avoidance of his flask does not seem to reassure her.

Her attention snaps back to the screen at the sound of Raymond Shen’s voice, tinny and tired. Something in her chest clenches and she’s seized by her own upswell of grief.

But it will have to wait until later as the outer chamber around them floods with a deadly gas.

\--

She tries to avoid being overly punitive. The men and women under her command work long hours under intense pressure and without sufficient outlet. She’s watched enough MASH to know what those circumstances breed.

Really, she’s been spared any serious antics. Yes, there had been a brief issue with trophy keeping, and yes, there had been more than a few off-color jokes, but by and large, they have all behaved as professionals.

They still do. She would just prefer they find other reading material than her publication history.

John sits across from her after dinner, the door to her office securely locked.

“Saudi Arabia.” He says.

She squirms in her chair. “How much?”

“Almost a quarter of our operating budget.”

Her eyes goes wide. “And what’s the price tag on that?”

“They want a Firestorm base.”

“It’s our people who operate them.”

“They seem to understand that.”

She rests her elbows on her desk, and buries her head in her hands.

“Lizzie,” he says. “You can’t turn them down. Not if we want this to work.”

“I know, but---”

“No but. They have money and influence. We need both.”

“Their human rights record---”

“China, Russia, Brazil, South Africa, and the US: we’re not free from moral failings on that front as it is.”

He’s right; she can admit that much.

The offer is good – better than good, even – and a Firestorm base in that part of the world would only help them should the worst come to pass. Better coverage would mean a better air game; a better air game might spare cities.

She really can’t find a downside, and her own moral qualms seem small by comparison.

“There’s something else,” he says.

“Good or bad?”

“It puts us over the operating budget we’d need --- over what we had at the peak of hostilities. And they’d likely bring another bloc of support along with them.”

“We’d be free to create a separate charter and decloak.”

He nods. “We’ll keep leaking files, get the documents drawn up, and drop cover.”

“And either succeed brilliantly, or find ourselves arrested.”

“Not the worst stakes we’ve ever lived with.”

“And there’s really no backing down now.”

“Not if you want to keep that research contained.”

She presses her lips together for a moment. “How do we get documents? We don’t have any lawyers in-house.”

“We have ways.”

\--

The SPARK had been a surprise, yes, but it had been a pleasant one. The prototype Sectopod, however, had been an entirely different matter.

Even so, they are still here. Yes, the SPARK needs repairs and, yes, Moon will be in the Infirmary a few days longer, but their gains far outpace their losses.

It doesn’t hurt that ADVENT remains seemingly none the wiser to their whereabouts.

In the three days since Menace team’s return from the tower, she has seen little of her Central Officer, but their scant interactions have been free of any tension. She suspects that something is amiss, but she refuses to push the matter.

“Commander?” Sally’s voice cuts over the comm. “I think you should see this.”

She can’t be certain, but she’d swear that’s panic in Royston’s voie.

“Contact? Transmission from one of the havens?”

“It’s Central, ma’am.”

She feels her skin prickle. “Where are you?”

“Aft-storage, sub-level C.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The sight that greets her is far and away the worst surprise she has received as of late. Bradford, curled on the ground, Sally’s fingers hooked over his wrist.

“It’s withdrawal,” she says. “He must have fucked up the taper.”

“How do you know?” She says, kneeling next to her.

 “It was like this the first time. It’s like this _every time_. He gets impatient and it all goes to hell. Last time almost killed him. And we had help then.”

“You have help now.”

“Tygan?”

“I know it’s not the best, but the man’s got a degree in pharmacology. He can calculate a dosage, if nothing else.”

Sally wrings her hands. “I don’t think I can do this again.”

"You’re not going to. Go get Tygan. We’ll handle it.”

The girl makes no effort to move.

“Go,” she says, voice gentle. “I’ll stay with him.”

After a moment, she sets off, returning shortly with the Chief Scientist in tow. Between them, they haul Central to his feet. They send Sally on ahead, scouting to make sure the halls are clear.  The Bridge is mostly empty, save for a skeleton crew on monitoring duty, and they’re able to maneuver him into her quarters without attracting much attention.

She starts an IV line, now grateful that her last re-certification had been only three months prior to the Invasion. Tygan leaves, then returns with something in a syringe.

“Lorazepam.”

“You think he’s gonna seize?”

“Sally had indicated there was a history.”

She draws in a breath and lets it out. “Well. This could get interesting.”

“In my time with XCOM, Commander, I’ve come to accept that as the norm.”

She knows she shouldn’t find that quite as funny as she does.

It’s a quiet few hours. Central spends the bulk of it asleep or otherwise unconscious. She spends it perched on the edge of the bed, reaching out every now and then to brush sweat-soaked hair off of his forehead.

“Lizzie? You really here?” He groans when he finally wakes.

 _I don’t know_ , she wants to tell him. _I don’t know if this is real, or a dream, or some other simulation. I go to sleep here, and I wake up somewhere else. I go to sleep there, and I wake up here. This_ feels _real, sure, but it also feels_ wrong _. Like I’m not supposed to be here. Like I ended up here by mistake. I don’t know. I wish I did. All I know is that you are here and I am here and, for now, that will have to be enough_.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m here. You came for me. I’m with you.”

“Don’t know if I believe you.”

“Think that’s the fever talking.”

“You only ever called me that once. And it wasn’t real.”

“What?”

“You know.”

 _Sweetheart_ , her brain helpfully supplies. _You haven’t called anyone that since …_

“It was real,” she says, softly.

“It was a fairytale. You said it yourself. Real you would know that.”

“We both know what happened.”

He reaches out with his free hand, tracing a finger gently down her cheek. “Always meant to tell you,” he says. “Thought I’d have more time.”

“You can tell me after you get some sleep.”

“You’ll be gone.”

“Man, are you in for a surprise.” 

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’m with you.”

“You knew, right?”

The question catches her off guard. “Yeah. I knew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're back. 
> 
> Thanks to the XCOM Discord, especially Bat and Noscere for help with Julian's taunts <3


	31. Thirty-One

She’s never been any good at the waiting game. Uncertainty makes her anxious and she’s already too well-acquainted with that particular sensation.

“This is what he does,” Sally says when she stops to check on him. “Something happens, he decides to dry out. He fucks it up, and then this. It’s why it doesn’t stick. Or, it sort of sticks and then something goes wrong and it’s right back to the bottle.”

She suspects the girl means to sound exasperated, but instead, it’s worry that carries forth.

It’s a fear the Commander shares. In her old life, she could have rattled off the steps to pre-hospital seizure care off the top of her head, performed them at the drop of a hat --- given the gear. It’s not that she’s lost the knowledge, and it’s not that they don’t have what she needs; it’s that there will be no hospital. There will be no medical doctors, no nurses, no crash carts standing by.

She and Tygan are on their own --- a professor with a paramedic’s license and an ersatz pharmacist.

They will have to be enough.

There are conversations she knows they should have had long ago, before the Invasion, when they were still John and Lizzie, instead of Central and Commander. They are the same conversations they should have had when she first regained consciousness from her rescue.

If he survives, she tells herself, they are the conversations they will finally have.

As a rule, she doesn’t like to linger on what might have been. It’s not productive. There’s no going back to undo the past, so she might as well get around to dealing with the present and planning for the future.

But there’s no matter more demanding of her attention. Engineering and research are enmeshed in projects and it’s not as if they’ll be going anywhere with Central in his present state.

It’s a natural progression.

If she had said no, turned down the affiliation with XCOM outright, she would have continued to labor in a function she hated, her relief in the form of visits from friends and to her family. She would be in a haven at best, perhaps dead at worst. The prospect doesn’t horrify her the way it once might have.

If Central hadn’t demurred from commanding, if he’d take the role she would have sworn was made for him, the results, by contrast, are not nearly so easy to predict. The past stretches out behind her, a hallway of locked doors whose keys she cannot hold.

She could have followed the sun, gone west and seen what came of it. She could have gone back to Istanbul, set up shop as an English teacher and spent her weekends wandering the continent. She could have said to hell with it all, abandoned the Ph.D, and done something else entirely.

The box she is in is one of her own making; there are so many other lives that could have been hers.

She hesitates to characterize it as regret. If the Invasion was a certainty, then so be it. If the loss of the base was a guarantee, then she was no more or less worthy of being captured than anyone else who could have led Earth’s last line of defense. Had she known what was to come, she can’t say she would have chosen differently, some resolute belief that, in knowing the outcome, she would be able to avoid it.

Not that any of it matters --- it’s a thought exercise, and nothing more.

Central gives a shout and she braces for another seizure. By Tygan’s estimate, he should be coming out of them, but this spell seems intent on lasting longer than it should. Unless the cycle breaks soon, they’ll be left to manage without the aid of medication.

Her stomach clenches. Put simply, without medication, she doubts he’ll make it through. The stress of the seizures and the damage from the drink will be too much, and she will lose him too, another body to bury in the graveyard of her history.

She can’t let that happen.

On the base level, he remains a key figure on the ship. His knack for logistics is still unparalleled. He is, she suspects, the only reason the alliance with the Reapers ever has ever had shot, the only one capable of really managing Volk. He’s an important presence for the resistance at large, a friendly face, someone they’ve come to trust.

She’s not sure what his loss would do to Sally. Despite their disagreements, despite the damage their relationship has suffered, it’s obvious Royston remains firmly attached to her guardian. Sally is hardly unique in the losses she has endured; orphans are part and parcel of war, an inevitable outcome when fire rains down and bullets cut the air.

But does that mean the burden of grief would be any easier for her to bear?

She cannot imagine the fight without him. For as much as he is not the man he once was, for as far as he has fallen, she still relies on him. If she has come to believe anything, it is that he is still there, soaked in booze and weighted down by loss, but beginning to emerge again.

The man she loved might still be there.

He’d waited twenty years. He’d come for her, risking everything to do so. And for all the blows they’d come to, for all the wounds they’d cut into each other, he’d still come back to her.

The convulsions start in earnest, and she wants to scream. They should not be here. This should not have happened. It’s all wrong, all so horribly fucked up. Whatever they are now, once upon a time, they had been good people. Those people, young and foolish and full of hope, had never deserved this.

Those people had deserved so much better: a shot at happiness, a chance to build a life in the world they knew, imperfect as it may have been.

They hadn’t deserved this.

It’s like letting something deep within her out, like giving form to raw feeling, or reaching for something and finding it’s always been there. It’s calm and terror and the force of unmitigated power, a bright blue energy suffusing out from her hands and into his skin.

The jerking stops.

His breathing steadies.

His color improves.

What the hell had ADVENT done to her?

\--

She checks her appearance in the mirror and runs her hands down the front of her dress. Her lipstick is crisp, her hair is pinned in place, and the face that gazes back at her carries a cool confidence, the kind that comes from having beaten back an alien invasion.

A digital copy of the new charter sits on the jump drive in her attaché case; its physical counterpart is making its way around the world, collecting commitments from the coalition they have built.

She doesn’t know how John arranged for the document’s creation or for the collection of digital signatures without attracting the Council’s attention.

Frankly, she doesn’t want to.

A professional life of conference presentations and a childhood spent among the powerful have prepared her well for this. The information drip fed to the press, the files and images that have enthralled the public, have prepared them appropriately for her announcement.

There’s a kind of calm in these final few minutes, a sensation she hadn’t expected. This isn’t her realm, but it is. The world of smiling and putting on a show, of making nice to court the attention of those you need, isn’t that different from courting university donors. The show is no different than the one her parents would have offered to diplomatic visitors; the only difference is that this on a far larger scale.

The facts are thus: she has a room to command. She cannot afford to be nervous, cannot afford to allow the cracks in her self-confidence to show. The reporters gathered in the room want answers, but more than that, they want a soundbite, a story. They want a hook to entice their readership. As long as she can give them that, as long as she can dazzle them with the kind of pre-packaged narrative that has always given her pause as a reader, they are in the clear.

  
This is an easy bar to clear. This is not defending the Earth. This is not protracted subterfuge. This is public relations to a crowd spared from annihilation by the efforts of her organization.

She sweeps her hair off to one side, throws one final glance at the mirror nearby, and steps out onto the stage.

She mounts the stairs, and her legs do not shake.

She stands behind the podium, a familiar act, and flattens out her notes before her.

Cameras click. Flashes flicker.

She takes a breath.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’d like to thank you all for taking the time to be here today. My name is Dr. Elizabeth Regan. I’m the head of the XCOM project.”

“I’m sure you all have questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them. No doubt you’ve already gained some familiarity with our work --- we’ve enjoyed reading your analyses of the documents made public. I do hope I won’t disappoint you by setting a few facts straight and offering a bit more insight.”

She offers them a wry grin. “I promise you: the truth is both better and stranger than you’ve speculated.”

The reporters turn out to be a far more amenable audience than the Council or her usual hoard of undergraduates. They are quiet, they pay attention, and they take good notes. If this had been her experience in the classroom, she doubts she ever would have left.

She can admit, however, that it is not about her charm or her poise. It is not about her education or her expertise.

It is because she is new and novel and interesting, and because her team knocked an alien ship from existence.

The second she ceases to meet those conditions, the moment they take a misstep, the nature of the attention will be very different indeed.

By the end of the Q&A, she has promised them time with Shen and Vahlen, an operational policy that favors transparency, broader cooperation with the global scientific community. She tells them what they want, though she does intend to keep her word.

The medikits could be game changers on the field. Shen’s repurposed SHIV could lead to faster rescue and recovery missions with lower risks of human casualties. If they can refine their understanding of Elerium, if they can find a way to synthesize it in a lab and do it cheaply, could provide clean power to those in desperate need of it.

There is so much good that could yet come, and so much ill that must be prevented.

She spends the flight home both desperate for feedback on her performance, and terrified by the prospect of it. She’s certain John has, at best, already fielded a rather irate message from the Council; at worst, he’s already been led away in handcuffs.

The radio crackles to life. “Alpha to Skyranger, do you copy? Over.”

 _John_. Probably not in handcuffs.

“Alpha, this is Skyranger,” Big Sky answers. “Reading you five-by-five. Over.”

“Charter nations send their regards, ma’am” he says, and she can hear the smile on his voice. “Seems they were impressed.”

“And the Council?” She asks.

“They’re scrambling. They’re not interested in pissing off the OPEC signatories.”

She tips her head back against the seat. They’ve done it.

“ETA to base a little under an hour, Central,” Big Sky says.

“Copy that.”

She steps off the Skyranger ramp and finds herself showered in champagne --- shaken if she had to guess. The members of Strike One, Two, and most of Mission Control surround her, cheering. She shakes the wine from her hands, and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. It flops unceremoniously back in her face.

“I take it this means I did well.”


	32. Thirty-Two

It’s like picking at a scab: once she knows it’s there, she finds she can’t leave it alone.

It’s psionics –that much she can ascertain on her own– but it’s not the kind she’s seen anyone else wield. It’s not obviously different in any meaningful way, but it does strike her as a little off that it’s the wrong color.

She can only surmise it has something to do with the method of induction.

Psionics are a grey area, though she is personally fascinated. The childish part of her that has always looked at magic and its near cousins with a kind of glee is absolutely awestruck. There is so little they understand and so much they could still learn.

Unfortunately, its study too easily veers into the realm of human experimentation.

She still doubts her decision to allow Vahlen to pursue it twenty years ago and, though Tygan seems to have a better grounding the in the fundamentals of bioethics, she’s not eager to subject any of her people to the kind of scrutiny that comes with being a lab rat.

She spends the morning learning to summon it, to let it build and flow, directing and dispersing orbs of energy between her hands.  There’s something peaceful about it, reflective.

It keeps her busy until Central wakes.

When he does, he pushes himself up, using an arm to bear most of his weight.

“Easy!” She panics.

His eyes are bright and clear, and when she meets his gaze, she realizes that they’ve played this scene before; they’ve merely changed roles. She’d laugh if she weren’t so worried.

“Commander,” he manages, voice rough.

“Central. How are you feeling?”

“Like I could use a toothbrush.”

And at that, she does laugh. It’s a perfectly John response --- not Central, but John. “I think that can be arranged.”

He offers her an exhausted smile. “I can’t con you into some water too, can I?”

“Maybe even juice, if you’re lucky.”

She passes Sally on the way to the galley, who eyes her with a look laced with both curiosity and dread.

“We’re through the worst,” she offers. “He’s awake; he’s lucid; there’s no fever.”

Royston relaxes. “Tell him he’s an asshole.”

She knows that she shouldn’t meddle. She can’t begin to grasp the weight of the history between the two, and in all honesty, it really isn’t her business.

 _But if that had been Sally’s attitude, you two still might not be talking,_ a voice inside of her argues.

“You could go tell him yourself,” she offers.

“I’m not even sure he wants to see me. Or anyone.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her outsized coat. “And I don’t know what I’d say.”

“You could bring him the water and juice I came to get, if you want. Say I got held up talking to Tygan.”

Sally scuffs the toe of her boot against the ground, thinking. “Will you come with me?”

“Will that make it better?”

“No, but it might make it easier.”

\--

For the moment, they have been spared. The question of the pods and their nanites still looms large over the possible future they have secured for themselves, but their funding is secure and a cavalry of potential new minds stands ready to join the ranks of XCOM’s research staff.

They are in a stronger position than she ever could have hoped for.

The Council isn’t pleased --- or, she assumes they aren’t. She’s aware that they’ve made several demands of her to explain herself, but she has no intention of doing so. The new charter nations have made taken her announcement as cues to make their own, issuing brightly worded statements of support and resolution, promises of a grand alliance and international cooperation.

It’s mostly bullshit, but it’s the kind of bullshit that makes voting populations in alleged democracies sit up and take notice. The Americans will demand participation, along with the Chinese, Brits, Russians, and the rest; they’ll do what they can to make their governments fall in line. 

Well, that’s her hope, if nothing else.

In truth, she still walks free. John and Raymond Shen do too. The future is impossible to predict; retaliation could come at any time, and there’s little she can do to prevent it.

She has done what she can, however, and that knowledge will have to be enough.

She ventures topside with John once the celebrations have died down, and once she’s had a chance to wash the sticky sweet champagne from her skin.

They pop their own bottle, clad in coats and scarves and gloves, and drink a toast.

There’s something delightfully forbidden in the act, though alcohol has always flowed freely and they remain well within comms range of Mission Control, should anything pressing suddenly occur. Perhaps it is the feeling of finally having seized some control, of having wrestled with a force far greater than their own and emerged with a victory neither of them entirely expected.

She can’t really say.

In the pit of her stomach, something gnaws at her, a feeling that this can’t be right, that the cards have all fallen a touch too perfectly. She does her best to ignore it, reasoning it away as a by-product of stress, some twisted version of survivor’s guilt for having witnessed so much horror and still finding herself able to revel in such happiness.

She tells herself she just needs sleep, that it will dissipate in the morning.

  
She kisses John because she can; because the air is clear and the stars are bright; because, for the time being, she can truly say they’ve beaten the odds. When she pulls back, their breath hangs in the air, a moment left to linger in time. There is so much she wants to say to him, so many sentiments she can’t put to words. She wants to cup his face in her hands and ask him if he knows, but even she can’t quite articulate just what it is he’s meant to affirm for her.

He reaches out, and brushes a gloved hand against hers. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s head back in.”

\--

Skittish is not a word that generally comes to mind to describe Sally. As far as she can tell, Royston would rather weather trials than tiptoe past them; privately, she doubts the girl even could.

However, there is no other way to describe it: as the door to her quarters opens, Sally is doing her best to hide behind her.

She’d laugh at the absurdity of it, if it weren’t so sad.

“You look … better,” Sally eventually manages.

Central offers her a slow nod. “I guess I couldn’t have looked much worse.”

Royston caves in on herself a little further. “Not too much.”

Her gaze bounces from guardian to ward and back again; she knows when to make an exit.

“I’ll be on the Bridge. Sally, if anything happens…”

Royston’s eyes go wide for a moment, but she nods. She gently squeezes the girl’s shoulder as she passes, knowing the meaning is understood.

She lingers on the overlook, the room below crewed only a few personnel. Even on the ground, the ship hums around them, the Elerium core like a heart.

She knows she’ll have to tell him, that to keep the secret would destroy the progress they have made. The prospect terrifies her --- she can answer so few of her own questions, let alone any of the ones he will rightly have.

She chews idly on a knuckle, considering the options before her.

It’s only when Sally taps at her shoulder that she realizes she is no longer alone.

“How’d it go?”

She fidgets with the end of her braid. “I didn’t tell him he was an asshole.”

“Probably wise.”

She fumbles for words for a moment, her brow furrowing. “Can I ask you a question, ma’am?”

“Whatever you need.”

“What do we do? When he fucks it up again?”

“Do you think he will?”

“ADVENT’s still hanging around. The Chosen. That vial. There’s no end in sight.”

“You don’t think the progress we’ve made is enough?”

She considers the question. “I want to. I really do. Things are … it’s hard to say things are getting better, with ADVENT melting people down, but they’re changing a lot faster than they used to. But, no, I don’t think anything’s enough for him. He’ll manage for a while, but something will happen because something always does. And then, it’s just right back to the bottle.”

She’s silent for a moment, thinking. “I won’t make you promises because I can’t keep them. And I don’t think you’re looking for reassurance, either. So, I don’t quite know what to offer you, Sally.”

“Am I terrible that that’s what I’m thinking?”

She shakes her head. “Not terrible. Just scared.”

Royston breaks her gaze and shoves her hands into her pockets. “I don’t know; maybe it’s a little bit of both. Maybe I’m supposed to have more faith in him.”

“The only way you’re gonna figure that out is by seeing what happens.”

Sally offers up her best attempt at a wry grin, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ma’am, I’ve always sucked at patience.”

\--

She takes issue with the concept of the twenty-four hour news cycle. It’s a misnomer, for one; while there are certainly enough significant world events to sustain a steady stream of new information, that is not what results.

Instead, viewers are treated to a myopic retelling of a carefully curated selection of stories designed to draw viewers and, by proxy, advertising revenue. For every minute of substantive reporting, it seems, there must be three minutes of so-called analysis.

She detests it.

She is certain there are other things in the world that merit focus and attention, things that are far more interesting than her choice of shoes for the announcement.

“I didn’t think they were that bad,” Molchetti offers. “A little bland, perhaps, but---”

She cannot believe she is having this conversation.

“They were classy! And understated! And weren’t supposed to be a point of discussion!”

“You’re a public figure now, ma’am.”

“I run a shadowy anti-alien organization.”

“That just got considerably less shadowy.”

“We’re still shadowy.”

Molchetti grins. “Of course, ma’am.”

She knows when she is being humored, but even so, she appreciates the attempt.

She opens her datapad and begins considering their next move in earnest. They’ve secured some good will, and she intends to build on it. Allowing Shen and Vahlen an opportunity to discuss some amount of their work allows the public in enough to ensure a certain degree of admiration for breakthroughs made, and helps to explain just what the current charter nations are helping to fund. Soldier stories are always crowd pleasers, but she’s not keen on exploiting those serving under the XCOM banner, parading the horrors they witnessed for the public’s entertainment only to have them turned into some grand and glossy movie.

She understands that, to an extent, she is part of the show, part of the allure. If she can sing and dance well enough to sate their curiosity, the rest of the staff may be able to continue their work in relative peace. This, as much as the war itself, is a test of her leadership.

There is enough she is wiling to share, enough questions of a non-professional nature she is willing to answer. She’ll give them enough to make her seem likeable, approachable. She can charm and smile, take them in and offer them the sanitized truth. It is, ironically, the life she had tried to avoid in the first place, a blow somehow softened by the circumstance. This is a problem of her own making, her own agency on display for all to see. She’d consider it a bitter irony, but she bears little real resentment towards her predicament.

It’s only the details of her relationship that she would prefer to keep from prying eyes. Just because she’s chosen to flaunt some of her deviances does not mean she wants to flaunt all of them.

She knows their luck will have to run out eventually; she hopes to be well out of the way when it does.


	33. Thirty-Three

She perches on the edge of the bed, briefing him on the day’s events.

“Sounds quiet enough.”

“Did you miss the part where Thomas tried to moon someone?”

“That’s Thomas.”

She rolls her eyes. “Strike One never would have done this to us.”

“They caused enough trouble.”

The comment hangs; this is the closest they have yet come to discussing those lost, a topic neither really knows how to broach.

“Sally was a surprise,” he offers, trying to maneuver the conversation to less difficult terrain.

“She’s been worried.”

He looks down, fascinated with the sheet. “She’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, she is.”

Silence drags out in front of them.

“Central,” she says, her heart beginning to beat against her chest. “I have something to tell you, but I don’t know how. You’ll have questions and I don’t have answers.”

The scant color in his face drains. “Is it bad?”

She squirms, refusing to look at him. “I don’t … I don’t think so. I just … I’d rather you know sooner rather than later.”

He offers her a small nod, not quite encouragement, but something more than mere assent.

She brushes her thumb back and forth across the tips of her fingers. She leans back from him, already regretting her decision.

She takes a breath and summons the energy back, letting it emanate from a raised hand. She breaks his gaze, afraid of what she’ll see. “You … there … something happened last night. I panicked and this …” She trails off. “I wanted you to know.”

He swallows hard. “How long?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how, either.”

“Does it hurt?”

The question catches her off-guard. “No,” she shakes her head. “It doesn’t … I don’t know how to describe it. But it doesn’t hurt.”

He nods slowly. “Does anyone else know?”

“No. I didn’t … I don’t have plans to make it widely known. I’d rather the crew not … talk. I just … Look, I ---”

“It’s … it’s okay.”

Her mouth hangs open and she stares at him for a moment. “You’re not … concerned?”

“I don’t know what they did to you, but you don’t either.”

“If we find out, I guess we find out together.”

For a moment, he looks like he might reach for her hand. He aborts the gesture, instead splaying his fingers across the sheet.

Before she can stop herself, she covers it with her own, his skin still cold under hers. His body tenses for a moment, then relaxes. He knots his fingers with hers.

Neither of them move to pull back.

It’s a sensation both foreign and familiar. Some part of her wants to curl up with him, settle against his warmth with the last shreds of her past and wait for morning to come again.

But there’s work to be done and a ship to be watched over, and besides, she’s taken more than enough risks for one day.

She stays with him until he falls asleep.

\--

With the initial news having been so well received, she expects an excitable press and an eager scientific community. The temptation to overshare will be significant.

She’s not sure what she really expects to do from the back of the room should that possibility come to pass, yet here she is, knocking back her second bottle of seltzer while she waits for Moira Vahlen’s presentation to begin.

The visual narrative Vahlen has built for herself is that of the researcher, interrupted. She is garbed in her typical uniform, right down to the crest sweater. It’s an interesting choice, but one she can appreciate. Everyone wants to control the story that surrounds them. By remaining in uniform, by refusing to allow the press to become distracted by trivialities, XCOM’s chief scientist evidently believes she will be able to keep the focus off of her and on the work.

Privately, she doubts the ploy will work, but stranger things have happened --- aliens, for one.

Admittedly, she doesn’t know much of Vahlen’s past. Her personnel file had arrived heavily redacted, not even the woman’s birthdate left intact. Her CV provided little more information, save for an abbreviated list of her publications and a hint of affiliated institutions.

It had given her pause then; it gives her pause now.

Vahlen is poised on stage, polished even. The cameras and flashbulbs barely seem to register, as if presenting to an audience of the world’s media is just another part of her job, like analyzing a sample or recording a piece of data.

She seems almost blasé.

If the assembled journalists and crew notice, they don’t react to it, hanging on her every word, desperate for detail.

To Vahlen’s credit, her usual enthusiasm does not overwhelm her. She parries the questions that need to be parried, soothes ruffled feathers, and dangles a few tantalizing scraps of what might yet be. It’s all with a kind of elegance Regan never would have predicted from the woman, the kind that only comes from practice.

She has so many questions.

By the end of the press conference, she has formulated no fewer than four theories and has sent no fewer than seven emails in pursuit of evidence for those theories. Without the immediate scrutiny of the Council, she is free to make use of her own network of contacts.

Surely, someone has to know something. If John hadn’t just asked his contacts for a string of incredibly risky favors, she’d get him to poke around.   
  
Somehow, she can’t bring herself to regret the end to which they’ve played their hand.

“Thank you. Please direct any further inquiries through the appropriate channels.” Vahlen’s voice cuts through her thoughts, bringing her back to reality. She loosens her grip on the empty water bottle, and flexes her hand, not realizing how tight it had become.

Everyone is entitled to their secrets --- god knows she still keeps plenty of her own. She can’t question Vahlen’s loyalty; she’s been given no reason to. It doesn’t change the fact that shadows that still cling to the woman, even out in the public light, giving her cause for curiosity, if nothing else.

When they return to base, she ensures there are no hidden stores of MELD.

\--

He’s up and walking before anyone thinks he really should be, but he seems undeterred by their protests. His color is good and his vitals strong; against all odds, he’s made a complete, speedy recovery.

She can’t explain it, but she won’t complain.

Tygan hesitates to clear him for piloting duties, however, so they remain in a holding pattern. The ship may be grounded, but life bustles on, the same as always.

Except, not entirely.

Sally sidles up alongside her on the overlook, leaning close as not to be overheard.

“He got rid of the last of his booze.”

“All of it?”

She nods, not making eye contact. “I know where he keeps it all hidden. Used to daydream about smashing every last container of it when he relapsed.”

Royston fixes her grip on the railing and takes a breath. “Ma’am, I have to ask you something, but there’s no tactful way to do it.”

“Okay.”

“I know…” Sally trails off, fishing for words. “You’ve got some form of the Gift. It’s … I can just feel it, yeah? Did you…” Again, she trails off. “God, this is a horrible question to ask.”

“Might as well.”

“Are you … influencing him?”

The implication settles like lead in her stomach. _Mind control_.

“Not … not consciously.”

Her grip slackens. “I don’t think you could do it by accident.”

“Christ,” she groans. “I hope not.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Sally shrugs. “But I’m not exactly an expert in psionics. I was wondering if you could somehow mask it.”

“Off the record, I’m still trying to figure out how to control it at all.”

. “Welcome to the club.”

“You seem to have a decent hold on yours.”

“I’m a lot better than I was. I had a bad habit of making things float when I got upset, but I’m nowhere near _Maman_ or _Papa_.”

“That’s not the worst quirk.”

“Not when you’re trying to hide.”

“Fair enough.”

Sally rocks back and forth. “Ma’am.”

“Royston.”

Sally turns to leave, but stops herself short. “I don’t know what you did, and I don’t know how you did it, but … I’m glad.” She nods, though no one has asked her a question. “I wasn’t ready to say any permanent goodbyes.”

“Yeah, me either.”

She sits with him at dinner that night, his usual flask or bottle replaced by a tall, steel thermos, a faded map of the United States printed on its front.

“That’s new,” she offers.

“Iced tea.” He takes a sip.

“ _That’s_ new. I seem to remember you being coffee or bust.”

“Comes with embracing close range combat.” Despite the dry delivery, there’s a glimmer in his eye.

She almost loses her drink. “You expect me to believe you gave up coffee because you took up slashing things as a hobby?”

He cracks a grin at her. “Nah. We’re just out of sugar. And honey,” he adds.

“And milk and cream and---”

“And all the little things that make coffee enjoyable.”

“Hey, on the upside,” she says, poking at her meal. “We never have to see that weird Folgers commercial again.”

“Commander,” he says, voice solemn. “I have some news for you about that.”

\--

She does not worry in the same way about putting Raymond Shen up in front of an audience. She has never doubted his discretion, never stopped to consider where his loyalties truly lie. He is measured and precise in his reactions and, dedicated as he is to his work, she is not concerned about his enthusiasm overriding his judgment.

He is keenly aware of the risk much of their work poses to the stability of the world at large, and will do nothing to possibly jeopardize its security.

Or, he wouldn’t, were he to agree to a press briefing.

“Commander,” he says from his spot behind his desk. “I have misgivings.”

She finishes the tea in her mug, and sets it alongside her chair. “I’m listening.”

“We have no idea what has been collected by parties outside of XCOM. While our salvage teams recovered everything they could, we cannot say with any certainty that they recovered everything. We have no guarantee they were the first ones on site.”

“You’re concerned about civilians?”

“Civilians, world governments, private corporations. There is the possibility of significant stores of material outside of XCOM control.”

She nods once, knowing he’ll take it as encouragement to continue.

“It’s likely that there are already reverse Engineering attempts underway. To hold a briefing is to publicly offer suggestions that might provide direction to those engaged in such efforts.”

“You think the questions will be that technical?”

“I don’t underestimate the ability of the curious mind to connect dots where none are meant to exist.”

“And, in doing so, actually find something.”

“Exactly. Not to mention the mere encouragement it provides. There’s nothing so motivating as the knowledge that it _can_ be done.”

She considers the argument. Loathe though she is to admit it, Shen’s point about the material they cannot account for raises unsettling possibilities. At the height of the incursion, it wasn’t as if civilian authorities had the means or the motivation to properly monitor contact sites, let alone to intervene in the removal of material from those sites.

No government had enacted laws against collection, and the novelty of things from far beyond has always called to some.  

“I’d rather not inspire copycats,” she says. “Especially not with the trials your team endured developing half of that tech.”

“We made good use of the fire suppression system. I would advise against attempting our work in a setting without one.”

“Backyard chemistry and Elerium sounds like a match made in hell.”

“Or an express ticket there.”

She leans forward, lacing her fingers together. “What do you recommend?”

“If you can’t avoiding a briefing entirely, then focus on the armor work. It has the least potential for harm.”

“Just a market for the component parts.”

“I admit, it’s not ideal.”

“It beats the alternative.”

“There is a time for radical transparency. This is not it.”

She relaxes back into her seat. “If there’s one thing I miss about having the Council around, it was that they worried about this.”

“A biodefense expert left frustrated by matters of containment? What an irony.”


	34. Thirty-Four

He moves back to his own bunk and she washes her sheets from the memory of him. She’s relieved to see him alive and well, and grateful to sleep in her bed instead of on her sofa, but finds she misses his presence.

She chooses not to dwell on that thought or its implications.

The atmosphere of the ship has grown lighter, though she admits it may simply be her perception, colored by recent events. Sally seems more at ease, if nothing else, more secure in the state of things.

Tygan clears Central to fly a few days later, finding no signs of lingering impairment.

“How’s it feel to be back on duty?” She asks him after dinner that night.

“Beats lying in bed all day.”

“Less monotonous, for sure.”

“It’s nice to feel useful.”

She watches him take a swig from an opaque canteen, and bites back a question, but her face must lay her concern bare. “It’s just water,” he promises.

She doesn’t know how to respond. He’s an adult and free to make his own choices. She knows she has to accept it, regardless of what those choices are.

He sets the canteen down, and rummages in his pocket. “I found something of yours.”

“Where?”

A flush colors his cheeks. “In with my gear. I was cleaning things out.”

He fidgets a moment longer, then withdraws his hand. He uncurls his fingers, revealing her missing necklace, the one he’d bought her that night in Berlin.

Her throat tightens. “How did you…”

He rubs at his cheek with the palm of his free hand. “Went back to the old base with Sally a while ago, something about looking for salvage. I don’t know. I guess I’d hoped I’d find clues. Some shit like that.”

“And?”

“And it was on your dresser, safe and sound. I figured you might want it when we … when you got back. I lost track of it for a while there. Sorry about that. I meant to get it back to you sooner.”

She takes it from him, the metal still holding his warmth. It’s just as she remembers it, the single opal in the silver setting. She takes a half of the clasp in each hand and reaches behind her neck. After some blind tinkering, she manages to fasten it, its weight familiar against her skin.

“I thought for sure it was gone, you know. When it wasn’t in the crates and it wasn’t anywhere else, The past is a the past for a reason. We don’t get to hold onto it. I just took its loss as a more literal manifestation of that.”

“Always the philosopher.”

“Come on, you know that’s bullshit. I just like to pretend things have meaning when they don’t.”

“Sort of the definition.”

“Maybe,” she muses, holding the pendant in her hand. “Thank you for this. It means a lot to have it back; I really missed it.”

_I really missed you._

He unscrews the canteen lid and takes another sip. “Like I said, I’m sorry it took so long.”

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting to get it back at all.”

“Sometimes, things work out.”

\--

They use the Engineering press briefing to introduce the world to the civilian-grade SHIV. Free of weapons and built for search and rescue in dangerous terrain, it is the perfect display of XCOM’s innovation without the risk of replication.

She doesn’t expect the internet to fall madly in love with it.

By the time the press conference wraps up, there are already memes, gifs, and a joke Twitter account. The enthusiasm overwhelms the team responsible for its development, unaccustomed to seeing their work so publicly feted.

Raymond Shen is baffled.

“Why? Don’t they have more important things to do?”

“They appreciate your team’s work.”

“They’ve drawn hearts around it in this picture.”

“They’re excited.”

“Their excitement would be better spent on their studies.”

“I’m sure you’re inspired them plenty on that front, too.”

Shen fixes her with a look. “What is it you say? Ahh, yes: ‘I know when I’m being placated.’”

She laughs. “I guess turnabout is fair play.”

“More than fair.”

Even she’s taken aback by the Kickstarter for the ROV-R the SHIV cartoon.

“Ma’am,” Hershel begs. “Please don’t give them a briefing about us. I’m not ready to be internet famous.”

“You’re telling me you don’t want people to write about you and Molchetti?”

“What?” Hershel gives her a look of flat horror.

“Yeah, the internet people get very excited about real life couples. They make art and everything.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“I am, in fact, entirely sincere.”

The medic blanches. “Ma’am---”

“I don’t have any plans on briefing the press on the intimate details of anyone’s lives.”

“And if they want interviews?”

“It’ll be volunteer, not voluntold.”

Despite having worked to orchestrate their reception in the press, there is something strange in seeing it come so perfectly to fruition. The dominoes have fallen exactly as they were meant, and the benefits are theirs to reap.

Something holds her back from total satisfaction, a sense that this is surface, not substance. She chalks it up to Engineering’s on-going effort with the Pods.

Identifying the components had been simple enough, but understanding how they work, the nuances of how they interact, has proven a more significant challenge --- particularly given the technology’s fail-safe self-destruct mechanisms.

She can only be grateful that they seem intended to prevent tampering, rather than induce harm. Peacetime casualties are especially painful.

She tries to have faith. New team members arrive daily for both the Science and Engineering staffs, bringing with them fresh eyes, fresh perspectives, and an existence not quite so burdened by a chronic lack of adequate sleep. If there is a solution to be found, their presence wildly increases the odds of finding it, and doing so in a timely manner.

Privately, she hopes the additional staff will help relieve some of the pressure. Even without hostilities, the demand is urgent and the pace frantic. After months without respite, and then only a meager recovery, she knows the risk of burnout is high. More hands means more coverage and, with any luck, a little less lost sleep.

\--

If she has learned anything since waking from her captivity, it’s that she would do well to lower her expectations. Good news is scarce. It’s often less disappointing to hope for a dearth of bad news than it is for a scrap of good.

Mox and Elena’s report, however, offers a challenge to that position. In their time away, they’ve managed to locate the Assassin’s stronghold and are, at present, working on a means of gaining entrance.

She hesitates to characterize it as hope, but she begins to consider the necessary preparations for a ground assault on the fortress. Shen and her team continue to refine both the magnetic weaponry and the reinforced armor; each successive deployment has led to more polished end results.

She takes care not to let word slip.

She’s aware of the hypocrisy, or the appearance thereof. She’s made a point to be upfront with the crew; to sit on this information flies in the face of those efforts.

She needs them focused, however. They have a laundry list of tasks before them: a research facility tied to the aliens’ project, codenamed AVATAR; the coordinates pulled from the black site vial; and a scattered resistance to unite. The possibility of challenging one of the Elder’s Chosen would prove a distraction --- one they can’t afford.

Besides, there is no guarantee that Mox or Elena’s efforts will bear fruit, and disappointment is bitter. The uptick in morale isn’t something she intends to squander, not on something that is, at best, a possibility and, at worst, a wish.

It’s a concern for another day. In the meantime, they need to keep moving.

In the days before the world fell in, they had a system when traveling: he drove, and she navigated. It made sense, and they both found some tranquility in their roles. They were surface tasks, then --- enough to keep them engaged in something while still holding space for them to think and talk. If solutions didn’t come from the water’s edge, they came from the not-so-open road.

Some patterns repeat.

He doesn’t need her to navigate anymore; she doubts she even could. For all the so-called conveniences ADVENT has brought the world, there are still no floating signs, no markers of where to steer your stolen alien ship.

She slides into the console next to him, and sets a thermos on the floor between them. It’s the last of the apple tea as opposed to the once-requisite coffee, but with their current situation, they’ll make do as best they can.

He smells of soap, rather than alcohol, and his hands do not tremor over the controls.

The ship’s engines thrum to life around them, and there is the distinct sensation of lift. Almost two months out of the tank, and she’s still not accustomed to the feeling of flight on board the Avenger.

She cranes her neck to watch the sights through the small window above their station: trees and clouds and life all around them.

 _Onwards_.

\--

She is enough of an adult to concede that she envies Moira Vahlen. She wants to bump the woman from her position, or re-assign her to some other task. Biodefense is meant to be _her_ area of expertise; she should be leading the team examining the effects of the nanites.

There’s no reason for the envy. The team is still hers to direct, and she is free to order them in whatever direction she sees fit. Were their roles reversed, she knows she would not be afforded the same luxury.

Petulance comes too easily to her, a fact she’s loath to admit.

Thankfully, distractions are plentiful. She doubts the Chief Scientist would appreciate her presence in the lab all day, fussing over the potential of agricultural contamination and broader infection by means of ingestion.

Engineering does its best to keep her otherwise engrossed.

“It’s technology originally recovered from the Invasion in the sixties,” Thompson presses on. “The Zudjari used it to build massive bases in a matter of days.”

“It’s our belief,” Shen intervenes, “that this was the same technology used to construct the base we infiltrated.”

She considers the diagram on the screen before her. The device had been recovered in the wake of the assault on the alien base, and had spent most of its time since in storage. She hadn’t realized any of Shen’s team had even begun to investigate. “What makes you think this ‘seed’ can even be re-programmed?” She asks. “We need a Firestorm base, not an alien bunker.”

“Our predecessors made some impressive progress in understanding it. It seems like they were close to a breakthrough, but …” Thompson trails off. “I’m getting sidetracked. Point is: if this works, and if we can reverse engineer other ‘seeds,’ we can deploy bases quickly and efficiently with minimal manpower and on short notice.”

She considers this. “Are we limited to bases?”

“What are you thinking, ma’am?”

“Refugee camps, tent cities, slums. There’s a lot of places that would benefit from cheap, easily deployable permanent housing.”

Thompson thinks for a moment. “If our work and the previous body of research are correct, you could, in theory, use one of these ‘seeds’ to build a whole city rapidly. It’s a matter of understanding an inputting the parameters.”

“A city?”

“It wouldn’t look exactly like a human city,” the engineer concedes. “But it would support and sustain large numbers of people living comfortably. In theory, anyway. We won’t know until we start to test it.”

“And you’d like to use the base in Saudi Arabia as a deployment opportunity.”

“We’ll be far enough out from a civilian population in the event of complications.”

“Complications? Is there something I should know, Thompson?”

Their face flushes. “We don’t _think_ there’s any danger, but it’s still alien tech.”

“What’s the worst case scenario?”

“We … don’t really know.”

“You don’t know?”

“The records from the sixties aren’t complete. Something happened, and there’s gaps in them.”

“Redactions?”

“No, literal gaps. Pointers to files that aren’t there.”

“Odd,” she says, more to herself than him. “Thompson, I want to support this. I think there’s some fantastic possibilities in the work. But until you can guarantee me we’re not about to summon another wave from the great beyond, I can’t even consider presenting this.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“It’s a not yet. Keep working, and we’ll see what comes of it.”

Thompson nods, and turns to leave. Once they’re gone, she turns her attention to Shen.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any theories on our missing files?”

Shen shakes his head. “Our archives have always been incomplete. I don’t think there’s anything sinister at play.”

She rubs at her temples. “Thank god for small mercies.”


	35. Thirty-Five

If she has to give ADVENT credit for anything, it is this: they always manage to surprise her. First, slurrying their human citizens for a resource easily obtainable without loss of life; then, a surprise Sectopod at their hidden jungle robotics facility; then, another at the entrance to this supposedly high priority production center.

She would have assumed the Elders would have placed a little more care in selecting their defenses, but then again, she would have assumed they wouldn’t launch an airborne mutagen without a plan for containment.

She’s been proven wrong on both counts.

She gnaws at her cuticle, watching the team’s feeds. Shen’s magnetic weaponry has been a boon in the field, and with a little luck, Menace is able to fell the monstrosity before it can cause any serious human casualties.

The car left parked on the bridge, however, is a different story, crushed under the weight of its guard.

“Don’t think that’s covered by their insurance policy,” Central says quietly, forcing her to stifle a laugh.

This is no time for laughter. They are in the middle of a serious operation in enemy territory and solemnity is the appropriate response. There are lives at risk and an objective to be met. ADVENT pushes on with its plans, and there is a limited window with which to counter them.

She has never been one for convention. For all there is left to be overcome, for all the horrors they may yet find, she will take her joy where she can find it. In the week that has elapsed since his return to duty, she has yet to see Central touch a drop. He avoids the bar, busying himself in the training facilities or managing the day-to-day reconnaissance in the Ring. In the evenings, they sit together to debrief the day.

She hesitates to compare it to the way things once were, but to deny that they seem to have found some renewed sense of normalcy, some scrap of the past to center themselves on, would be a lie.

She refuses to risk that delicate equilibrium by informing him of the broader situation, the matter of here and there, fact and fiction. She has a job; she’ll see it done. In the end, that’s all that matters.

A Codex flickers in and out of existence from the corner of the screen.

“Hold your fire until you’ve got a clear shot,” she says. “We don’t need that thing multiplying.”

Moon and Zaytsev get the opportunity soon after, clearing the way further into the facility.

Pods line the walls, sliding open as the team advances. For an instant, she hopes for civilians, the chance to arrive in time to prevent a slaughter, rather than just bear witness to its occurrence.

Instead, newly formed ADVENT grunts greet them, not yet activated from stasis.

Next to her, Central sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I knew we should’ve sent them in with X4. We could’ve blown their whole production line to hell. Disrupted troops for …”

She shakes her head gently. “Not long enough. There’s got to be a backup facility. We’ll find other ways to get at them.”

His shoulders sag and he nods.

On screen, Thomas jabs at a Trooper’s cheek with his finger, poking at the flesh.

She pinches at the bridge of her nose. “Thomas, are you done?”

“C’est pour le science, ma’am!”

She’s surprised Central’s eyes don’t roll right out of his head. 

\--

When there is nothing left to offer, no staff to meet and no technology safe enough to show off, she offers them herself. There is plenty she is willing to put on display; the lives of those who wear the XCOM uniform is not one of them.

Not that the prospect of giving them free access into hers elicits any great joy.

She refuses to speak on live television. Her press conferences are an exception, not a norm, and she’d rather not give the global media any impressions to the contrary. At least in print, she is able to ensure herself some measure of protection, a few moments of thought to consider her answers.

She’s still cautious in whom she speaks to. Not all editorial boards are created equal, and she’s well-aware of that fact. She chooses her American outlets with extra care; she’s not keen on being misrepresented, her words twisted into salacious clickbait. She’s sympathetic to the broader struggles of the journalistic establishment, but that sympathy has its hard limits.

For the most part, the interviews focus on her professional life and her experience working to oversee the anti-alien response. A few instead turn their attention towards the future, what role she sees XCOM and its resource pool playing in humanity’s next steps.

By and large, they’re questions she can see the value in having asked and answered. The reporters give her room to elaborate, to pitch her vision and build her case. They’re here to serve the public interest and to sell stories; leaving her room to offer meaningful details does that just as well as any other course of action.

It makes the question about her relationship with John that much more shocking.

“You and Central Officer Bradford seem close according to some reports. Would you say there’s romance in the air?”

She balks, caught off guard for the first time, and without a sufficient bit of bullshit. This isn’t something she can brush off as “considering their options before proceeding”. It’s not a policy decision; it’s her personal life. If she wants this dealt with, she have to deal with it now.

“Officer Bradford and I are a team. We worked closely together during the Invasion and he was vital to our ultimate success. Any suggestion of something more would be totally unprofessional.”

Of the things they do not need, a public reveal of their indiscretion lands near the top of the list, bested only by another incident with the Fog Pods or some fresh wave of invaders.

“Shame,” the woman says, finishing her note. “You’d make a cute couple.”

At the end of the day, she hangs up the phone and buries her head in her hands. With any luck, she has finally given enough to sate the initial craze. Though she’s grateful for the warm reception, she’d rather not have all eyes on them as they move forward. A little disinterest would go a long way in assuaging the worst of her public relations concerns.

John grimaces when she tells him, as displeased by the question as she’d been.

“Do you think it was a leak or just a good hunch?” She asks.

“Hunch. Maybe not even that much. I doubt any of our people talked and no one on the outside knows.”

She huffs. “Haven’t I given them enough? Do they have to keep making hay?”

He smiles. “Welcome to the public eye.”

\--

She hates ADVENT, and she hates their ability to surprise her. The sight of the suited figure had felt like the underpinnings of the world being ripped away. As ridiculous as the notion is, she can’t help but feel some creeping sense of doom, some gnawing believe that they will free whatever, or whoever, is contained therein and she will be left staring down at herself, that reality will fracture too sharply and she too will break in its wake.

Her personal existential crisis aside, however, there are matters more demanding of her attention.

A diversity of tactics makes sense. It would be foolish to have multiple assets operating with the exact same skillset. She wouldn’t send out a squad composed of only rangers, or snipers, or specialists; ADVENT knows better than to rely on however many abominations with identical aptitudes.

High ground is abundant; a sniper makes sense as a counter to her team. If she removes herself from the immediate situation, she can manage a vague sense of admiration that the Elders have done something sensible in response to the threat they pose, a kind of silent, sarcastic golf clap.

At the moment, she doesn’t have the luxury.

Menace scrambles from cover to cover, the suit slung lifeless over Thomas’s shoulder. The Hunter yammers on gleefully, occasionally sending a shot to graze a nearby tree, more interested in taunting them than in posing a real threat. She knows it’s a gambit, his way of chipping at her focus. He’s a louder, deadlier version than the worst of her students, the sort who came to class with the sole purpose of disruption.

She has experience ignoring his brand of bullshit.

“It’s him,” Sally says, her attention on her guardian. “That’s who Nadezhda was talking about. That’s why the dissent in the ranks. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that thing exists, or that it used to be one of them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Ten foot tall bastard with a hood, a loud mouth, and a sniper rifle? Don’t think there’s too many of them running around. The bolder he gets, the louder Volk’s denial becomes.”

“But what does he think he’s gonna get from that?”

“I don’t think it’s about getting; I think it’s about not admitting he fucked up.”

“Language.”

“One of his people got nabbed on his watch, and he didn’t grab them back. What word would you like me to use?”

“There has to be more to it than that.”

Menace approaches the rocky outcropping that serves as their evac point. There are no trees here, only a few boulders not quite large enough to shelter behind. Scaling the outcropping and bugging out will leave them almost directly in the Hunter’s line of fire.

“If there is,” she hears Sally say, “why didn’t he tell you?”

Kelly makes the climb first, staying low to assist Thomas with the ascent. She shields him as best she can as they make their way towards the waiting lines, as if her body will be enough to stop a bullet.

Sally’s question seems to have stymied Central, though the Commander has the distinct impression that was by design.

The dart pierces Kelly while Thomas is halfway to the top, leaving Zaytsev and Moon to dash towards her, the Hunter apparently no longer interested in idle distraction. The feed grows murky as the smoke from Zaytsev’s grenade fills the air, buying the last of the team time for a clean exit.

Behind her, Central hasn’t yet figured out how to respond.

\--

She hasn’t managed to shake her unease when Vahlen summons her to the lab the next day. She chalks it up to yet another night of strange dreams, a looming fear of an impossible double, a suit she’d wanted to open about as much as Pandora’s Box.

John had chalked it up to a combination of nerves and caffeine, the cracks of putting on a protracted show. He’d pressed a kiss to the top of her head and run his fingers along her skin, skimming the curve of her hip.

She knows that, in all likelihood, he’s correct. Odd dreams have long been her brain’s response to stress. The ones she’d had just before her dissertation defense had been something out of a David Lynch movie.

They’d meant nothing, of course. They hadn’t been any kind of ill omen or strange portent. She’d passed with only minor revisions and gone happily on her way.

Dreams are just dreams: ephemeral and immaterial. She can’t afford to let them trouble her.

And yet, they do, though not nearly as much as the abject lack of enthusiasm in the Chief Scientist’s countenance.

She would never describe Moira Vahlen as a grim individual. She may have her reservations, some of them serious, and they may have their fair share of professional disagreements, but to characterize the woman as anything less than brightly enthusiastic would be a lie. Even in relaying the most gruesome details, she’s never seen Vahlen without her near trademark excitement, the sentiment driving those around her into varying states of unease.

But there is no excitement in Moira’s voice and she’d swear it’s worry on the xenobiologist’s face.

For the first time, she considers greeting her with an honest and sincere “Are you alright?”

“Commander.”

“Doctor.”

“We need to talk.”

She follows Vahlen into her office, settling into the indicated chair. “Something tells me you don’t have good news.”

“The preliminary results of our latest analyses are … disquieting.”

“That’s an unusually strong condemnation coming from you.”

“We knew that a higher concentration of the nanites allowed for the defeat of the body’s immune response, but the specific mechanisms they employed remained unclear. If the observations from our most recent investigations are correct, at critical mass, the nanites activate and begin altering the host’s DNA, integrating themselves as what the body considers to be a benign entity. At this first stage, there are no noticeable changes beyond that. However, this makes the development of a treatment, let alone a vaccine, considerably more difficult --- if not impossible.”

She draws in a slow breath. “So, we have an active bioweapon in some percentage of the global population that, at present, we have no means to counter. Development of that counter, if at all possible, will be difficult.  Am I understanding this correctly?”

Vahlen nods.

“Has your team begun to look into transmission vectors outside of primary exposure to Fog Pod off-gassing?”

“With your permission, that’s the next phase of our work.”

“Of course. Could you speculate on its effects outside of the human population? Animals? Plants?”

“Not without additional materials.”

“Get your team together,” she says, rising from her seat. “Get me a list, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. And in the meantime?”

“Continue your work. I’d like to know just what it is that’s coming for us.”


	36. Thirty-Six

On the balcony overlooking the bridge, she can feel Central’s gaze on her.

“Is it the suit or the Chosen?”

Her eyes flick briefly up to meet his, but she doesn’t say anything.

“So, it’s both.”

“He was playing with us,” she manages. “He could have had the whole team down and all I would have been able to do is watch.”

“Let’s not go that far. It was a clear line of sight. Odds are, he was just buying time til he could get it.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again. “The possibilities are uncomfortable. If Moon and Zaytsev hadn’t been there to grab Kelly, things might not have gone so well. We got lucky with Mox. I’m not sure that luck would hold a second time.”

“Can’t play ‘what if.’ We’ve got too much coming down the line.”

“Like whoever’s in that suit.” She shudders. “Who else is missing? Who could they have?”

“Tygan wasn’t picking up life signs and we didn’t find it in the same situation we found you in. It might be less of a some _one_ and more of a some _thing_.”

Her mouth twists. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. I wouldn’t wish being shoved into that suit on anyone, but if it’s not a person, then what _is_ in it?”

“You won’t have long to wait once the Skyranger lands. The lab’s on standby.”

She lets out a short, panicked chuckle. “I’m almost too afraid to see what they find.”

“It’ll be alright,” he promises. “You’ll feel better once you know.”

“I’d say I couldn’t feel much worse, but that’s probably tempting fate.”

“On this ship? Guarantee it.”

Disembarking the craft, Kelly seems no worse for the wear, save for a tender spot where the dart pierced. Nevertheless, she orders the ranger to the infirmary as a precaution.

Likewise, she orders Thomas to the showers with a derisive “God knows what _else_ you found to poke at.”

Her well of excuses runs dry far sooner than she’d like, and she finds herself in Tygan’s lab, staring down the suited figure on the table.

Once again, she’s seized with the absolute certainty that they will remove the mask and she’ll be left face-to-face with herself, some kind of hackneyed copy, a dime store clone.

Or, maybe she’s the clone, a cheap imitation of the woman who’s meant to be here: a plant, a ruse, a ---

 _No_.

She may feel like she has spiders running the length of her spine, but this isn’t the time. It isn’t the place. The fear isn’t rational. It isn’t reasonable. They have come across no evidence to suggest it or support it.

The shock of Central’s fingers knotting with hers for a moment, a quiet gesture of reassurance, is enough to startle her back.

The face staring up at her is, in fact, not her own. It bears not even a passing resemblance, and the realization sends relief coursing through her veins. On closer inspection, she realizes the face doesn’t even look quite like a face at all.

There’s something there, yes, but it’s somehow unfinished, a clay man not yet fully formed.

“Doctor,” Central asks. “What exactly is it we’re looking at?”

“On that,” Tygan sighs, brushing his hands down the front of his lab coat. “I can only begin to speculate.”

\--

She has come to rely on his calm, on his steady demeanor and even hand. Now, when she needs it most, she can begin to see it waiver.

Not that she can blame him, As far as developments go, the low likelihood of treatment for a bioweapon they’re nowhere near understanding is an alarming one.

“And they’re sure?”

She nods. “I think even Vahlen’s nervous.”

“So, she can crack.”

“Covertly deployed bioagent that the person in charge was too busy to investigate? I’d be nervous, too.”

“Lizzie.”

“I know, I know.” She shrugs.”Can’t do anything about that now.”

“We have time. There’s been no change in the energy pulses. Vahlen’s team didn’t highlight anything imminent.”

“No, but this was the sort of thing I was supposed to see coming. That was the point of involving me at all.”

“New York, Beijing, Mumbai: there’s no way they could have been evacuated. Not without causing a panic.”

“It’s going to cause a panic all the same.” Her face darkens. “It’s only that now, the world knows who to blame.”

“The aliens.”

She buries her face in her hands. “Not quite.”

“You didn’t propose it; you didn’t develop it; you didn’t deploy it. And Shen’s people will figure out a way to stop it. They’ve got time now --- that’s thanks to you.”

“Hey, don’t cheat yourself out of the credit on that one,” she says, picking her head up enough to look at him. “You pulled off some miracles.”

“And so did Shen. If anyone can manage a solution, it’s him. How many times has he pulled us out of the fire?”

She has to admit: he has a point.

“What do we tell everyone else?”

“Nothing yet. We’ve got no sign of infection among our people. Until that changes, or until something changes in the big picture, they don’t need to know.”

Something about the prospect doesn’t sit well with her. She has made every effort to be honest with those who place their trust and their lives in her hands. Yes, her recent activities may have taken a turn towards cloak and dagger, but it had been in everyone’s best interest. She can’t say the same of this.

“But they probably have a right to.”

“Lizzie.”

“A good chunk of Vahlen’s team already knows. Not the new kids, but the ones who’ve been with us a while. And they talk. Someone’s probably already said something. I’d rather they hear it from me than through the grapevine.”

John considers her. “What good do you think comes of this?”

“I don’t seeing any good. It’s more like I see a chance to minimize the bad. Our people trust us, and we trust them. We can’t jeopardize that. Not with so many other unknowns in play.”

“It’ll be hard to take.”

“It’ll be worse if they find out we’ve been keeping this a secret. I’d rather be honest, as much of a crater as it’ll be to morale.”

His voice is gentle, but his next question is harsh. “And what are you going to do when it leaks to the press?”

She presses her lips together, considering her words. “I’ve already started telling stories. Guess I’ll just start telling bigger ones.”

Lies, fibs, half-truths: it’s all a matter of scale.

\--

They take dinner in the Ring, notes of all reported Avatar and Chosen activity spread out before them. There is something comforting in the ritual, in its familiarity. They’ve played this scene before, more times than she can count. The scenery may have changed and the players may be worse for the wear, but this is a tradition she understands.

“Mox and Outrider think they’ve got a way in on the Assassin’s hideout.”

“And what about a way out?” She asks. “I’m all for it, but taking down one of the Elder’s favorite playthings is going to kick the hornet’s nest in a big way.”

“Remote enough to make a mass counter assault difficult. They’ll take it out on the havens instead.”

She grimaces. “But taking the Assassin out of the game _would_ take some pressure off of the Skirmishers, give them a little more leeway to work. If we can do enough to counter the retaliations, it’ll still work to our favor.”

“What are you thinking?”

“If we get the butcher off their backs, I’m wondering if Betos’s people can buy more time against whatever it is they’re working on with Avatar. We’ll need it if this plan of ours is going to work.”

“I’m listening.”

“They’ve got eyes and ears still in that system. I’m betting they’ve got good intel. ADVENT’s building facilities as fast as we can blow them up, and that’s solely the ones we know about.”

“So, killing the Assassin becomes both an act of good faith and a means to free up resources.”

“That’s my hope. Skirmishers have been amenable to working with us so far. I don’t see that changing. Besides,” she shrugs. “We get enough unpleasant surprises as it is. I won’t miss having one less to account for.”

“Me either.” He rubs a hand over his face. “How do you want to play this?”

She leans forward against the table. “Give everyone a few days to rest. Get in touch with Betos, let her know what’s going on in case things go south. We’ll rendezvous with Mox and Elena, debrief, and move forward from there.”

“I’m taking it you already know who you’re sending in.”

“Zaytsev’s our best medic, so he’s a natural choice. Kelly. And Santos is a little green, but he’s the steadiest hand of all the heavies.”

“Five? Didn’t realize you felt like making that much of a statement,” he jokes.

“It’s a risk, but so is ending up in a tight spot and down a gun.”

“It’s a good call.”

She offers him a small, rueful grin. “I’m not sure any of this is a ‘good’ call, but I don’t see too many other options. The longer we leave her to run wild, the more liberties she’ll take.”

“And it’s time to put a stop to it.”

“More than time.”

She looks up to see something that almost looks like the old spark in his eye, a touch of hope and mischief.

At the appointed hour, they make their way to the crew quarters where a small celebration is already under way. Wallace covers Sally’s eyes while Moon fumbles with a match, struggling to light the single birthday candle wedged into the cupcake.

Wallace removes his hands and the birthday girl lets out a noise of shock and delight, the small baked good an unexpected treat.

“Royston,” Kelly starts. “We didn’t go through all the trouble of getting you a cake and a candle for you to just ogle it. Make a wish!”

“It’s a lot of pressure!”

“Royston!”

Sally closes her eyes and extinguishes the flame to the applause of those gathered then plucks the candle from the top, licking off the icing.

The grin on the girl’s face says all it needs to.

“How did you guys get a cupcake anyway?” The Commander asks, leaning in close to her second-in-command, and keeping her voice low.

“There’s a few havens with decent access to the things you’d need.”

“Have we been near them?”  
  
“Not lately.”

She furrows her brow. “Then how…”

“Frozen in an airtight glass container.”

“Where?”

“The only place cold enough.”

She buries her face against his shoulder, stifling her reaction as the implication dawns on her.

\--

Her audience gapes back at her in mute shock. She’s never actually stunned them into silence before and she can’t say she enjoys the effect.

“At this point,” she continues, “you know everything that we do. It’s not a lot and I’m sure you have questions. Dr. Vahlen’s and Dr. Shen’s teams will continue to work towards gaining a better understanding of these nanites, their effects and, ultimately, how to disable them.”

“In the meantime, I’d ask you to keep this news contained. Global recovery is progressing nicely and the last thing we need to do now is incite a panic. The world’s eyes are on us. We need to earn their trust and keep it A leak of this information, even an unintentional one, would do irreparable harm, both to this organization and the relationships we’ve begun to build outside of it.”

“I know this isn’t the kind of news any of you wanted, and it’s certainly not the kind of news I wanted to stand up here and deliver. I wish it was better, or at least more concrete, but that’s not the situation at hand.”

“We’ve faced long odds before, and we’re still here. If it weren’t for the dedication, hard work, and sacrifice of everyone in this building, we couldn’t say that. If you have faith in anything, have faith in each other. We’re all going to need it.”

Her second briefing, this time to intelligence representatives from the charter nations, is no better received.

She’d taken their victory at face value and, in doing so, had gravely underestimated her seemingly fallen opponents. She makes no attempt to save face, laying the facts bare for their funders.

As the day wears into night, she begins to receive additional offers of resources: virologists, epidemiologists, microbiologists, materials science specialists, access to anonymized health data and monitoring. She accepts it all, not wanting to squander the good will.

“You know there’s gonna be moles in that group,” John says later on in bed.

She sighs, and buries her face against the crook of his neck. “I’m counting on it, but I have to believe the good outweighs the bad. I’ll take the help, even with the risks.”

He rests his hand on her back, knuckles ghosting circles over her skin.

He does not offer her reassurance.

He does not promise her it will be alright.

They both know it’s not in his power to do so.

Instead, he lifts his hand to her cheek, brushing hair away from her face, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

She can ascribe all kinds of meaning to the gesture, but they both know it is not a simple good night kiss. There’s fear and comfort and, she hopes, some measure of forgiveness.

She has tried. All along, she has done her level best. More often than not, it has barely been enough, sufficient only to scrape them from total disaster.

Yet here they are, once more on the precipice of something terrible, and without a safety net in sight.

It never gets easier; she doubts it ever will.

All she can hope, all she can _ever_ hope, is that they will find a way through.


	37. Thirty-Seven

They take a brief diversion, following up on a cache of goods hidden in the D.C. suburbs. It’s far enough from the city itself to have been spared the Lost, the area largely left to rot. The charred remains of its broken and bombed out neighborhoods still remain as proof of the world that once was.

Central had once called this area home. For a time, so had she.

It’s a quiet, low risk operation. Scanners are clear and field reports from the cell operating in the area continue to flag it as safe, making it the perfect opportunity to give some of their greener operatives a little more field experience.

Sally looks positively gleeful.

In theory, it’s simple. Find the cache, raid the cache, return to the ship. Barring an appearance by the Hunter, it will be quick.

She does not count on this particular neighborhood being relatively intact, given the circumstances. Nor does she factor in the curiosity of those on the ground.

Her crew is, for the most part, young, the literal children of Vonnegut’s proverbial crusade. Many of them are have only hazy memories at best of a world before ADVENT. They’ve heard stories in the havens and from some of the old timers, but it’s different to physically step into a world that, for them, has never existed.

The neighborhood doesn’t look bad for the twenty years that have passed since she last passed through it. The bricks on the houses have held well, and the paint on the doors has not peeled badly. The gardens, from what she can see, seem to have taken over, but she figures that’s to be expected, an inevitable casualty of the onward march of time.

“I’ll be damned…” Central whispers at the sight of it. “I didn’t think…”

“Yeah, me either.”

On the ground, the house that has caught their attention seems to have drawn the interest of the team as well.

“I don’t think anyone’s been in it for years,” Santos says.

“There probably hasn’t _been_ anyone here in years, except to drop off and pick up,” says Kelly. “D.C. got hit hard during the bombings. My mom lost all of her cousins in an afternoon.”

“You think someone could still get in?” Sally muses. “Probably some good salvage in there.”

“What, do you think someone left a --- Sally, where are you going?”

But the redhead is off, hoisting herself over a gate and into the garden, headed towards the backdoor.

On the bridge, the Commander catches her counterpart’s eye. “Are you gonna say something?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like she can get in.”

On screen, Sally bends down, rummaging for something beneath the chest plate of her armor. “A-ha!”

Central gapes at the feed. “Where did she get lockpicks? I don’t even think she knows how to _use_ those.”

Sally kneels down in front of the door and begins fidgeting with the lock, the wrench held steady in her off hand.

“John.”

“Lizzie.”

“Pretty sure she knows how to use them.”

After a few times, the door swings open, and she pockets the set before remembering to unlock the garden gate for anyone who might join her. She makes her way back to the house and steps into the murky light of the interior.

She stop in front of the refrigerator, seemingly distracted by the photo affixed to it: two people, caught mid-kiss on the banks of the Spree in Berlin.

Next to her, John’s face is buried in his hands.  
  
“Central?”

“Yeah, Sally?”

“I think the milk in your fridge went bad.”

\--

The threat of annihilation hanging over the world’s head is nothing new. If anything, it should feel like a return to the status quo. The Great War, the flu, the atom bomb, the H-bomb, climate change, and then the aliens: safety has always been something of a flimsy illusion.

For eight months, they lived with Sectoids and Mutons and Thin Men, civilians abducted or slaughtered before their eyes. They lived with the knowledge of Chryssalids, of Ethereals, of the fact that their own friends could be turned against them at the drop of a hat.

Still, they lived.

Time free from that particular burden has seemingly robbed them of their ability to carry it. The old fear seeps back into the hunch in people’s shoulders; into the way they eye the news broadcasts, way of some fresh horror; into the everyday exchanges drawn closer to the polar extremes of terse or tender.

As always, the wait is the worst.

She busies herself, desperate for ways to feel useful. She pores over the fragmented archives of the thwarted Zudjari invasion of the 1960s, hoping for some kind of parallel in their infected “Sleepwalkers,” but to no avail --- save for the shared transmission by environmental contaminant.

The gaps bother her. She can appreciate the need for the appropriate concealment procedures, but for gods’ sake, she’s certain the data could have just been classified, that there was no need to expunge it from the very fabric of existence. The longer she dwells on it, on the reasons for its loss, the tighter her stomach knots.

The news remains quiet. There are updates on rebuilding efforts, but also on elections and scandals and the weather and which famous person is involved with which other famous person this week. Politicians lie, movie stars charm, and the world carries on, unaware.

Intellectually, she can concede that it’s better this way, that the world is a more stable place for the public’s ignorance. If they cannot find a solution, if this bioweapon will run its course and they will be left to their fates, then it’s better to spend the last days –be they days, weeks, or months– in peace.

The truth would set off a panic, she reminds herself. Cities around the world under haphazard quarantine, road blocks and travel bans, snake oil salesmen and charlatans, teeming masses of people staring down the barrel of an unknown danger already in their blood: it’s a disaster waiting to happen. The gains they’ve made would all be lost, rebuilding efforts halted.

It had all seemed so simple when she’d started down this path. She’d been young, she’d been hopeful, and it had all seemed so full of potential. Yes, her time in the classroom had dulled that, and yes, she’d been properly introduced to the complexities of reality, but nothing had prepared her for this.

She’d once believed the exposure of truth was a moral imperative, that governments held a responsibility to provide accurate information to their citizens. There are times, she has now come to believe, where that could not be further from the truth.

\--

Sally makes her way through the house, nosying through drawers and cabinets, closets and bins. She’s delicate in her investigations, respectful.

“There’s a lot here to salvage, if we can spare the time.”

“Sally.”

“I’m not saying _you_ have to take it Central, but someone could us it. A full set of cast iron pans? There are people in the havens who’d kill for that.”

“Those were my grandmother’s.”

“Even more reason not to leave them to rot.”

She pauses in front of the tall cherry bookshelf, considering its contents. She reaches out and picks up a framed photograph.

“You look a lot like your dad,” she says, voice soft.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but doesn’t respond.

“Avenger, this is Menace,” Kelly’s voice cuts in. “Package is secure and we are awaiting orders.”

“Radar’s clear, ma’am,” Wallace offers.

She rocks back and forth for a moment before turning her attention to the house’s owner. “Sally’s got a point. There’s a lot there it’d be nice to have.”

On screen, Sally makes her way into Central’s closet, shoving aside clothes and hauling out a large suitcase, followed by a fireproof box.

“What is she _doing_?”

“John.”

They watch as she sets the box into the suitcase, then makes her way into the bathroom, emerging with an armful of towels, in which she begins wrapping things.

“We don’t have time for this, “ he protests. “We…” He trails off, his heart obviously not invested in his argument. “We have to go.”

“We can spare a little time now. She could grab the basics.”

“I wouldn’t know what to tell her to take.”

“I think she’s got a pretty clear sense.”

His shoulders sag, but he doesn’t disagree, simply watching as she moves through, collecting what she can.

“Sally,” she says. “Fill the case with what you can and lock back up. We’ll cycle back and do a more thorough grab after we finish our business with the Assassin.”

“Understood, ma’am. Where am I supposed to get keys, though?”

“There’s a fake rock next to the back door,” Central volunteers. “There’s a spare there. Don’t lose it.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“You were enjoying yourself.”

Sally stops in front of the bookshelf again, re-examining the items on display. She wraps up the family photograph and runs it upstairs, then returns. She settles this time on a collection of large, slender hardcovers and scoops them up before depositing them with a _thunk_ on the coffee table. She makes her way back into the kitchen and removes the photograph from the refrigerator, sliding it in between the pages of one of the tomes.

They too find their way into the suitcase.

At the threshold of the guest room, something stops her in her tracks. “Ma’am, is there anything I shouldn’t see in here?”

 “Nothing exciting,” she chuckles. “But if you’re in there anyway, there’s a box in the back of the closet. It’s small enough, but you’ll find it.”

Sally opens the door and takes a moment to appraise the closet’s contents. “That dress is cute.”

“If it fits, you can have it.”

“Really?”

“If it means you locking up and getting back on board, absolutely.”

“Sweet.” She takes it from its hanger and bends down, beginning her search for the box in question. After a few moments, she rises with a victorious cry of “Found it!”

“Brilliant. Now pack up, lock the door, and get back here.”

\--

The presence of fresh blood in the base has left them cautious. Both She and Vahlen seem grateful for the new eyes and ideas, but her own experience has taught her that few features of good will come without strings attached.

Not that she exactly blames their funders. The Fog Pods had been a major oversight on her part; of course, they’d do what they could to prevent a repeat occurrence, even if they aren’t keen on being overt in those intentions.

Nevertheless, she and John are careful. They keep to themselves in public. He monitors the Hologlobe and she remains in her office, reviewing reports and drafting requests, She visits Shen to check in on the state of his teams’ various projects, and gives Vahlen a wide berth to pursue hers.

To the outside observer, they are the picture of propriety. Nary has a professional line been crossed. They are coworker and allies and nothing more. All is just as it should be.

She’s hardly expecting to open the door to her quarters to find him sitting on the floor next to two long-stemmed wine glasses and a bottle of sparkling cider.

“Hi,” she says, shutting the door and leaning back against it.

He picks up on her unasked question right away. “I thought we could both use a break, even if it’s just a small one.”

She flicks the lock into place and slips out of her shoes before lowering herself to the ground next to him. “How’d you manage this?”

“Secrets,” he answers, a small glint of mischief in his eye. “I haven’t emptied the tricks out of my sleeves yet.”

She laughs and leans into him, enjoying the warmth of his presence. “If you ever get bored of this world-saving gig, you could open up your own surprise planning business. Great for birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries!”

“I don’t think anyone would buy in,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“For your level of stealth? Of course they would.”

“I do what I can.”

There are other delights, too. Relationships with the charter nations have greatly expanded the variety of goods they’re able to procure at a given moment, but fresh, sweet, juicy strawberries are still an unexpected treat in the doldrums of February when winter still clings in the air. The Manchego is everything it should be, buttery and sharp.

The carton of apple tea, the same brand she’d lived three years of her life on, feels like a little piece of hope, hand-delivered.

“I know it’s been tough, and I know I haven’t been there for you the way I should. I’m scared, but we’re gonna get through this. We’ve gotten through everything else: the Invasion, the Council, you name it. We’re still here. And we’ll make it through this, too.”

She is not, by nature, an optimist. She prepares for the worst case as a matter of course. Her disposition has carried her far, has earned her praise for her work. Ultimately, it’s what earned her the attention of the nascent XCOM project. But here on the floor of her quarters, wrapped safely in John’s arms, she’s willing to believe that, perhaps, they’ll make it through after all.


	38. Thirty-Eight

The civilian-grade SHIV gets its first field test sooner than anyone expects. The Nazca plate shifts, sending tremors across Ecuador’s Pacific coast and into its interior. The damage is sizable and the SHIV is requested for deployment to aid in search and rescue in areas still too unstable for aid workers.

“Any reservations?” She asks Shen.

He shakes his head. “It seems a suitable field test. I’ll be interested in the data we retrieve from it, and with any luck, we’ll manage to lend a hand.”

“I hear the little guy’s fans are anxiously awaiting his debut.”

The Chief Engineer lets out a small noise of derision. “Time better spent elsewhere.”

“Slap some googly eyes on it and the internet will start sending it present: dog toys, bones, a leash, who knows what else.”

Shen heaves a deep sigh. “Googly eyes have already made an appearance. In a war of attrition, sometimes concessions must be made.”

“Concessions?”

“There are only so many fights one can win. It was googly eyes or racing flames. I felt the former was less of a distraction than the latter.”

“They wanted to paint flames on the SHIV? The _civilian_ SHIV? That has no weapons?”

“They wanted it to ‘go fast.’ I told them their time would be better spent refining the drive mechanism in that case. They informed me they could do both.”

“Did they?”

“They managed to increase power output and drive train efficiency, so yes.”

“Hence their case for the flames.”

Raymond pinches the bridge of his nose. “I sometimes question the difference between the development laboratory and a daycare center.”

“At least haven’t stuck any specimen heads on it again.”

“Nor will they,” he says with some sense of finality.

“How are the rest of your teams’ projects progressing?”

“We still have no guarantee of safety on the deployment of the seed; additional information has been scarce and small-scale testing is hardly an option with a device once used to erect massive towers. The Pod team is continuing its analysis, but a lack of comparable devices in our storehouses and the absence of a frame of reference has raised unexpected challenges.”

“So, the usual?”

“Par for the course.”

The SHIV’s intervention generates a wave of good press, short blurbs picked up, shared, and re-shared. On the ground, pictures of the little robot at work begin to appear, its googly eyes somewhat dirtier for the wear. She can’t say she’s thrilled to be back in the public’s consciousness so quickly, but as long as the Fog Pod debacle and its potential fallout under wraps, she’s hopeful the gesture of goodwill will continue to endear them to the public at large.

On some level, she knows its reveal is inevitable, a matter of when, not if. Something will bend; something will break. She should draft a statement, prepare a press strategy, brief the senior staff on the response.

But there is some other part of her, though, that worries in doing so, she’ll damn them all. It’s absurd, irrational in the extreme, but she can’t seem to reason herself out of it. She has power, now more than ever, but she can no more bring the crisis to a head than she can pull the Earth off its axis and to believe she can is lunacy.

Whatever’s coming will come. All she can hope is to minimize the harm.

\--

They end up unpacking the suitcase together, the detritus of the lives they once lived spread out before them. The small velvet box Sally recovered from the closet sits on her lap, a collection of her mother’s and grandmother’s jewelry, returned to her once more. She has no place to wear it, but its presence is a comfort all the same.

Central lifts out the stack of books and chuckles. “Of course she’d find the old dungeonmaster’s guides.”

“She had her priorities.”

“I used to tell her stories about the bullshit my old group got up to. A lot of splitting the party and coming to regret it.” The grin is heavy with regret, but it travels to his eyes. “Turns out it’s not too different in real life.”

“Should run a campaign. Might get it through some people’s heads.”

“What makes you think Thomas would play?”

“It’s a chance to seduce anything that moves. That’s right up Thomas’s alley.”

He grimaces, but doesn’t disagree. “We don’t have enough dice.”

“With any luck, we’ll be back to the house soon enough. We’ll pick them up then; I seem to remember you have a pretty sizable hoard.”

“I don’t know who you think is going to run this campaign.”

“You can’t tell me some part of you doesn’t see the appeal.”

His mouth twists, trying to hide a smile. “Thomas finds enough ways to push my buttons, thank you.”

“And now you can sic a Beholder on him.”

He flips through the thickest of the books, finding the photograph contained therein in easily enough and slipping it without comment between the front cover and its end page.

For all their progress, there are some conversations they are not yet ready to have.

He hands her the folded cotton sundress and continues on, beginning to unwrap the framed photographs from around the house. He follows a pattern: unwrap, re-wrap, and transfer to his footlocker. It’s a gesture of love in its own way; with the turbulence they so frequently experience, setting them on display would be asking for them to be broken.

He lingers on the same one that had drawn Sally’s attention, an image of him astride his father’s shoulders, no more than five or six, his mother next to them. The figures beam at the camera, delighted by the seaside vacation, far from the monotony of the Kansas cornfields.

“I never meant to be him, you know. I always promised myself I wouldn’t be. I was supposed to be better than that.”

“The war fucked everything up. The odds weren’t exactly in your favor.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “That was his excuse, too.” He re-wraps the photograph and sets it aside. “At the end of the day, it doesn’t change the facts. That fuck up is all mine. Sally deserved a lot better.”

“You did what you could.”

“I should’ve left her with mom. She said about as much the last time we saw her.”

She cocks her head. “Your mom made it through?”

His expression brightens minutely. “Yeah, sorry. Should’ve mentioned that. She’s alright and well out of the way of the city centers.”

“She was always tough.”

“Hasn’t changed. A lot better with the shotgun, though.”

She offers him a small smile. “Like mother, like son.”

Again, he shakes his head. “If I’d been half the parent she was, would’ve spared Sal a whole lot of ugliness.”

“You got her this far.”

He eyes her sadly. “One of the few promises I didn’t manage to break.”

“I’m sure there’s a few more.”

\--

Even in the face of the unknown, life goes on –- a fact she is abruptly reminded of when she catches Lan with his hands down Pukkila’s pants in the supply closet on the third sub-level. They are not cowed by her intrusion and she treats the indiscretion with a roll of her eyes and a grumbled comment about socks and a reason for bunks.

She overhears Hershel and Royston comparing notes on parent pressures. From the sounds of it, Devorah and Isabella find themselves in the mirror opposite position of Edouard and Steph, with two sets of parents eager for wedding bells.

“Grandchildren,” Devorah explains. “They want grandchildren.”

Steph considers this. “I think you two could be great moms --- I mean, if that’s what you want.”

A smile graces Hershel’s lips. “Down the road. Everything is down the road. There’s so much before that’s even on the table. But what about you? Babies ever after?”

Steph laughs. “Devorah Hershel, I have been reliably informed that parenting requires a certain degree of mental health and stability that neither Edouard nor I have been known for since _at least_ last May. Can you imagine how badly we’d fuck a kid up? Oh my god, our therapy bills are going to be high as it is. Let’s not drag someone else into that, yeah? Family nightmare time doesn’t sound like a quality bonding activity. I hardly think Dr. Spock would approve.”

“I’m surprised you know who Dr. Spock is.”

“I don’t live under a rock!”

“But it’s so … maternal. Parental, maybe.”

Steph’s smile is off. “You have to have considered your options to know which ones you should really take off the table.”

She considers the idea of Steph as a mother and finds it feels oddly familiar, like it’s something that’s already happened. It hasn’t, of course --- unless there’d been an accident Royston and Martin had chosen to handle. Even that, however, wouldn’t explain the sensation.

She chalks it up to a dream, only half-remembered and strangely recurrent, a by-product of stress and too much of something or other before bed.

She wonders if there are any options she’s removed from her own table. Before, she would have said a future with John, but she’s been proven wrong on that front. The issue of children had been decided for her long before the war, or so she thought, but it’s an idea she now plays with in the quiet of the night, the idea of adoption seeming far less far-fetched.

She can’t even say the doors of academia have closed themselves to her. If she were to leave XCOM, to resign from her post and return to life as she knew it, she’s positive she could find some institute of higher education to accept her --- probably on her own terms, even: a decreased insistence on publication, no more teaching, and time to pursue the things that merit the most attention.

If she has sacrificed anything, it is her ignorance, her ability to roll over and go back to sleep in the middle of the night, but she’s hardly unique in that.

After all, who among them can?

\--

They touch down outside the Skirmisher camp and make the trek in. She’s come to recognize more and more faces with each visit and takes some comfort in seeing them; she only hopes their plan will guarantee them some additional measure of safety.

Outrider still seems ill at ease surrounded by her former enemies, but she’s made strides in working with them. She almost seems to be enjoying her conversation with Betos, as animated as she ever is behind the cover of her mask.

Spread out on the makeshift worktable is a series of maps and diagrams, most of them meticulously hand drawn.

“You’ve all been busy,” she says, leaning forward to better examine the documents. “Very busy.”

“Our efforts have been fruitful,” Mox says. “We believe we have a plan.”

Thanks to a combination of Mox and Outrider’s efforts in the field and Betos’s network of contacts among those still in ADVENT’s ranks, a clear picture of the AO soon emerges.

The actual entrance, though well hidden, is only lightly guarded. Security on the approach isn’t likely to be a problem, but once inside, all sources suggest they should brace for heavy resistance.

“After we’ve broached it, what are the odds we light the whole grid up?” Central asks.

“Minimal,” Mox assures them. “The Elders have entrusted each of their favored servants with their own garrisons.”

“The cells largely work in isolation,” Outrider adds. “Take one out and you might cause a stir locally, but the disturbance does not spread.”

She nods, then turns her attention to Betos. “If this goes sideways, how quickly can you evacuate your people?”

“We are used to traveling without warning, but additional time will spare lives.”

“So, if we flag you at the start of the op…”  
  
“We will be ready to move.”

She drums her fingers against the table.

“I sense there’s something more you’d like to ask.”

She draws in a breath, mindful of her choice in phrases. “Assuming we can permanently eliminate the threat the Assassin poses, how much operational latitude does that free up for your people?”

“Without the Butcher? We would be free to pursue a far wider variety of works. Is there something you had in mind?”

She chews on her lip. “The AVATAR project. If this works, and if we can successfully end the Assassin, then it stands to reason we can bring about the same end to the others. In theory, it should help weaken the Elders’ grip, but if nothing else, it’s a royal _screw you_. But to pursue it full force---”

“You need assistance containing the greater threat.”

“Exactly. Hunting the Chosen makes sense. They’ve proven they can and will disrupt critical ops. In the short term, they’re a significant threat to organized resistance, but in the long term, whatever this AVATAR project is seems to be what’s really coming for us. If there’s any way your people would be able to take the pressure off, it would buy us all a little more time.”

Betos smiles. “There are those among us who would find no greater pleasure than the disruption of the Elders’ work.”


	39. Thirty-Nine

Experience, she has always found, is the best teacher. Theory carried her into the job, but practice has made her proficient.  
  
That’s what she tells herself, in any case.

In truth, there is no real instruction manual for kickstarting psionic ability, no abbreviated guide on the fastest ways to improve your powers —let alone what those powers actually entail.

She’s ascertained that, whatever she has, it’s different from what the psi ops wield, distinct from even Sally’s natural born gift.

She can’t say she’s entirely surprised: the aliens have a known history of genetic tinkering. She can’t imagine this is much different.

The thought makes her stomach clench. What else had they done to her? And why?

Her concentration shattered, the book plummets from the tangle of blue energy, toppling the tower.

“Eight’s a new record,” Central offers, looking up from his datapad.

“The day I make it to ten, I’ll take the whole crew out for ice cream.”

He grimaces. “I think I’ll pass. Don’t want to think about where ADVENT gets the milk — assuming it _is_ milk.”

“As opposed to what? Soy? Almond? Soylent Green?”

He lets out a groan. “How can you joke about that?”

She settles back against the couch. “In the words of Jenny Holzer, ‘laugh hard at the absurdly evil,’ I guess. I’ll take any dose of humor, even the really dark stuff.” She’s quiet for a moment, the tip of her tongue brushing back and force across the scar in her soft palate. “If this goes sideways, we’re not gonna get another shot.”

He sets aside the tablet. “It was like this years ago, before we hit the first base. You remember?”

She nods. “Doesn’t feel that long ago, but…” She trails off. No need to draw any attention to the recent past. “God, I’d really thought we’d hit them where it hurt. We’d come so far. I really thought we’d make it.”

“We _did_ make it out of there. Even Royston and Martin.”

She flinches, the memory of Edouard Martin’s screams under the Sectoid Commander’s control coming back to her.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. “It’s not gonna be like that. We know what we’re getting into, more or less. There’s no intel from the Skirmishers _or_ the Reapers that suggests anything out of the ordinary.”

“But we’re still sending our people right into whatever trap she has waiting. And if we blow it? Betos doesn’t strike me as the fair weather type, but it wouldn’t give her much reason to put any faith in me.”

“Faith in us,” he corrects.

She closes her eyes. “Even if we’re right, if we manage to end her, who’s to say something worse isn’t coming? Kill the Assassin. Kill the Hunter. What if they’re just stress tests? Some way to feel out our weak spots?”

Central goes quiet.

“It wasn’t a weak spot,” he says. “It was mind control. There’s a difference.”

“They’ve already weaponized it en masse once. What’s to stop them from doing it again?”

“They never expected us to find you.”

“You. They never expected _you_ to find me.”

“But we did,” he presses on, ignoring her comment. “This whole situation, it’s something they didn’t plan for.”

“You hope.”

“It’s part of a new thing I’m trying.”  
  
She snorts. “Let me know when you figure it out. Sounds nice.”

“You remember,” he promises. “Better than you like to admit.”

\--

“I don’t know why everyone expects me to have something insightful to offer,” she says, accepting the proffered mug. “I was just as badly blindsided as anyone else.”

“It’s not about what you say,” Raymond Shen begins, turning his attention to a new set of blueprints across his desk. “It is that someone is there to say it. You happen to be the face of XCOM. Therefore, it falls to you.”

“I should’ve stuck Central out there.”

“That would have been unkind to Mr. Bradford.”

“He’d know what to say, though.”  
  
“He possesses no gift of inspiration which you do not.”

“We both know that’s not quite true.”

The Chief Engineer looks up from the task at hand. “Commander, what is this really about?”

Really, she should have expected he’d see through her.

“It may not be over.”

“You have no evidence to suggest that.”

“The Pods. The nanites. Until we solve those, can we really say game over, case closed, we’ve won?”

“The rest of the world has. So had the troops.”

“Which really wasn’t the most prudent thing for me to have allowed.”

“I doubt it’s something you could have stopped.”

She rolls her shoulders. “‘Here is my thanks to the monster who did not succeed in swallowing me alive, but might be coming around for a second attempt’ just doesn’t roll off the tongue. It feels disingenuous to go out there and celebrate.”

“I think, perhaps, commemorate might be the better term.”

“But to commemorate an ongoing conflict? It’s a farce.”

“Then think of it as maintenance. We need time, and we can’t afford a panic.”

“So, we lie.”

“The alternative is always there. What serves the people of the world best?”

She sips at her tea. “Not a panic.”

“You’ll do what must be done. We all will. It’s the nature of the work.”

“It just feels wrong.”

“Commander,” he says, resting his hands on his desk. “We operated in the shadows for months. What’s the harm in retreating part of the way back?”

“I promised transparency.”

“And I promised my daughter aliens weren’t real. Circumstances change.”

She spends the afternoon in her office, scribbling down snippets of Remembrance and Veterans Day speeches, platitudes that still sound trite to her ears. She pins them all to her dartboard and takes aim, jotting down where the darts stick.

John looks at the remnants of the process, somewhere between amused and alarmed. “Writer’s block?”

“Lying is apparently harder than I thought,” she offers. “I’m going for the crowdsourcing approach to this problem.”

He picks up the stack of index cards, thumbing through. “How many did you read?”

“As many as I could find. I picked out the phrases that showed up the most, wrote them down, and let the darts do the rest. I just have to better arrange it.”

“Not your typical approach.”

“Not anyone’s typical approach.”

His face softens. “You can’t keep torturing yourself about this.”

“It’ll be better,” she sighs. “I hope, once Shen and Vahlen come up with some kind of plan. Or a better understanding of how the whole system works. It’s one thing to lie by omission; it’s another to take a more aggressive approach.”

“I wouldn’t call any of this,” he taps the stack. “Aggressive.”

“Historically, it’s what people need to hear.”

“If people could manage speeches on the eve of World War Two, so can you.”

She grimaces. “Don’t jinx us.”

“If I’ve got that kind of power, man, have I been misusing it.”

She rolls her eyes, a grin spreading across her lips in spite of herself. “You’re no help.”

He shrugs. “Can’t win’em all.”

\--

What strikes her is how unfinished parts of it look, like fresh construction not quite ready for public eyes.

“She’s been active almost as long as the Skirmishers. Shouldn’t this place be a little more polished?”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of sword joke, ma’am?” Wallace jokes.

She doesn’t have long to consider the question, however, as a heavy MEC flanked by Stun Lancers emerges as Menace pushes into the next chamber.

The grenadier hoists his gun and takes aim, cracking the armor. Zaytsev and Moon focus on one of the Stun Lancers while Thomas takes on another.

The MEC’s shot goes wide, shattering a column and sending debris raining down. Thomas finishes the Lancer as he moves past, and the detritus stymies his counterpart long enough for the ranger to take aim and fire.

A final volley from Wallace fells the MEC.

They continue on, through a chamber of as yet unactivated ADVENT troops, illuminated by low red lights. There is, she thinks, some kind of irony there, birth and butchery under the same eye — though she doubts anyone would appreciate the observation at the moment.

There’s a mixed contingent in the next room, Vipers and freshly awoken foot soldiers. Thomas finds himself quickly ensnared, freed only by a timely jolt from Zaytsev’s GREMLIN.

“That’s why we don’t talk about Vipers like that,” Kelly says from her monitoring console. “He wants to get close with them? Let him get his wish.”

“He wants to what?” Central asks.

“Ask anyone, sir. Thomas and Vipers.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“No one did, sir.”

“Welcome to XCOM,” she interjects. “We all suffer together.”

There’s two more MECs and a Muton in the Ascension Chamber, driving home the point.

In the fragments she’s read of the Zudjari Invasion, the Mutons were mercenaries. They were individuals, those who had entered into battle of their own free will.  Some part of her wonders if that’s still true, of it the Elders have found a more direct way to harness their brutality.

As it flings Moon across the room, she decides it probably doesn’t matter.

Still, it nags at her. The Zudjari had needed a home world. To pay the Mutons’ price, in whatever currency or trade it might have taken, must have seemed a pittance. She can’t imagine the Elders as the bargaining sort, wholly uninterested in anything but mass subjugation.

She’s never asked why any of those who serve under her joined. On the surface, she figures the answer is obvious enough: take Earth back. It doesn’t take a great philosopher to posit a link between that desire and the subsequent decision to sign your life away to one of the organizations doing its best to bring the dream to fruition, but she also suspects that the individual reasons tend to be far more nuanced, far more personal.

To endure this kind of abuse, they’d have to be.

As the team activates the Ascension Chamber’s gate, more than a little worse for the wear, she only hopes she can make it all mean something.

\--

Edouard Martin does not look the part of a fragile man. Tall and broad shouldered, he dwarfs his wife and most of his squadmates, save for Bernard.

He’d always struck her as an odd fit for a soldier, though certainly not for a lack of lethality. He’d earned a Doctor of Physical Therapy prior to joining the French forces and always seemed at his happiest engaged in those matters than anything else.

The war hadn’t been kind to anyone. They’d all seen horrors; some had been made to commit a few. Martin had come too close to that possibility in the alien base, and again, in the midst of the assault on their own sanctuary.

Both times, it had only been Stephanie Royston’s quick thinking that had averted disaster — but had it really?

The Edouard Martin who came back from the alien base had been quiet and withdrawn, reluctant to leave quarters even for meals. She’d given him as much time as she could, but he’d gone back into the field far too soon, some rescue mission for a Council VIP that ended in a near-perfect After Action Report.

He was better, but the edges hadn’t healed, hadn’t begun to re-form into a whole person. A violation so personal, she can’t imagine how he’d fought to manage even that much.

She never should have allowed him to be tested for psionics. She should have found some excuse, some means to spare him, the consequences be damned. It would have been kinder.

Instead, she unleashed that which he most feared.

She still wonders if it would have made a difference on the day alien forces returned the favor of a courtesy call, flooding into the base in wave after wave of destruction.

Steph had told the story with a nervous kind of half-laugh, wringing her hands as she’d waited for him to regain consciousness in the aftermath of it all.  
  
_“Jesus Christ, knocking him out with his own arc thrower. That counts as our first real spat, right?”_

She hadn’t been the only one to see the fractures.

 _“We both know it should be me,_ ” Molchetti had said, back straight. “I’m _volunteering. Hershel’s more use keeping everyone alive. Martin’s been through enough. Let me handle whatever’s coming._ ”

Those words had come back to her at the news of Isabella’s apparent sacrifice — and been swiftly chased from her mind by her safe, if unconventional, return.

She watches Martin, the bags under his eyes as prominent as ever. Royston appears next to him, rolling up on tiptoe to plant a kiss to his cheek, some of the tension dropping from his frame. They’ve found a peace in each other, fragile and tenuous though it may be.

She wonders how he will handle a second round of hostilities, the possibility of sirens once again cutting through the air, the smell of smoke and bodies on his armor and in his hair, the old terror of just what’s around the corner back again.

Something tells her he will not.


	40. Forty

Generally speaking, she tries to avoid drawing inspiration from ADVENT. She’s never been keen on fascist dictatorships, and this one is no different.

But, damn, what she wouldn’t give for their future psi ops to be able to cloak and teleport like the Chosen do.

It might help even the field when dealing with retaliation against the havens.

The Assassin offers nothing new — it’s the same old bag of tricks. She slashes, she hides, she knocks the team over.

For their part, Menace splits their attention among the enormous floating capacitor, the Butcher, and her minions.  
  
“Wallace, focus on the monolith. Thomas, make sure he’s got coverage from any surprises. We can’t afford to waste shots here.”

The grenadier’s volley hits square on and the device cracks, emitting smoke and discharging energy. When the Assassin attempts to repay him with a sneak attack, Thomas cleaves her in half with the laser sword he’s named Marie-France.

“Looks like she’s on her last legs, Menace,” Central says. “Hang in there.”

The Chosen’s forces collapse, apparently adrift without the orders of their garrison leader.

The Assassin flickers back into existence a moment later, crumpled on her knees before the destroyed capacitor, still smoking and sparking into the air.

She watches as the Butcher struggles to free her sword from its holster, determined to end things on her own terms.  
  
She can’t say she’s surprised the Elders built supersoldiers with an apparent self-destruct impulse wired in; why admit your failures?

With only a few more words and without even a moment’s reservation, the Assassin plunges the blade, the glimmer of life quickly draining from her eyes.

“On your toes menace,” she orders. “We don’t know what kind of failsafes this place has.”

She braces for explosions, or a codex, or another wave of MECs. She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but she’s certain it can’t be the end.

It would be too simple, too straightforward.

“Shen,” she calls. “Scanners?”

“Short and long-range are clear. We’re not picking up any comms traffic.”

“It’s over,” Central says, voice soft. “One down.”

She lets out a long, slow breath, and rolls her shoulders.

“Grab the body and any tech you can, but be careful — if it’s anything like the rest of ADVENT’s surplus, it’s liable to explode.”

Zaytsev tends to Moon’s still bleeding arm while Thomas makes his way towards the corpse. He wraps his hands around the hilt of the blade and, without flinching, wrests it free.

It does not explode on him.

He gives it a few experimental swings, cartoonish attempts at old-time flourishes.

She notes, with some disgust, that the motion appears to scatter alien blood droplets everywhere — not that it seems to phase the ranger.

“Thomas,” she sighs. “For goddsakes.”

She does not allow herself joy, let alone excitement — only a vague sense of relief. The greater threat looms large, uncowed by what they have accomplished here. To even _call_ it an accomplishment strikes her as a deadly sort of hubris; she’s certain there will be retribution.

She doubts it will be on those directly involved.

“It’s a good win,” Central says, seeming to sense her train of thought. “Even with the wounded, we’ve taken one of those things out. ADVENT never expected that.”

She watches as Zaytsev shoulders the Chosen’s corpse while his GREMLIN pokes experimentally at the now-abandoned firearm. Judging it safe, Moon picks it up.

She turns her attention to the man next to her, sober and steady in a way she never thought she’d see again.

“One down, two to go.”

——

They commemorate the anniversary quietly. She does not give a speech, instead offering written remarks. The decision draws derision from among a small subset of the press, but she prefers it to the alternative.

There is nothing scheduled, not officially at any rate, but she gets word of small gestures of remembrance taking place around the base.

Hershel spends the day in her quarters, sitting what she can only describe as a kind of makeshift shiva for those lost, offering the Mourner’s Kaddish. Bernard keeps watch over those at the bar, substituting in water when appropriate. Lan and Pukkila do their best to add levity, hanging a painted alien busters sign in the common room.

The only sight she catches of Steph Royston is of her padding about in pajamas and a sweatshirt several sizes too large two bowls of cereal in hand.

It’s hardly a surprise.

For the labs, it’s another work day, another three shifts to unravel the nanites. Vahlen offers her a polite nod of the head at lunch, but refuses any other indication of their progress.

In bed that night, she rolls over, burying her face into the crook of John’s neck. “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like for us if all of this hadn’t happened?”

She feels him set his book aside. “XCOM or the Invasion?”  
  
“The latter.”

He considers his response for a moment. “I try not to; it’s not like it’s something we could have changed.”

“But, still, you do.”

“It’s hard not to sometimes.”

She wriggles herself into a better position for conversation. “They say World War Two was responsible for a good chunk of modern society. Advances in tech and medicine … but all of that death. All of that bloodshed. The atom bomb. The Cold War. The gains were great, but the losses were staggering.”

 “And then, when you look at this,” she continues, “it’s the same thing all over again. We’re looking at massive leaps forward with what we’ve salvaged, things that could make a real difference for a lot of people. But the cost — the cost has been so high.”

“I don’t think you can quantify cost-benefit, Lizzie. It’s never that simple. History can tell you all the pretty stories it wants, but dead civilians are still dead civilians. The best I’ve got right now is that I think this … everything we’ve been through … it’ll be a legacy of something more than just loss and destruction.”

“But will it ever be enough?”

“For us?”

“For us. For everyone else.”  
  
He pulls her into his arms, rubbing her back. “There will be good things that come out of this. But enough? I think it’s gotta depend on your definition.”

“Hot water. Non-smoking. Heat and air conditioning. Working locks. No bugs.”

It’s a cheap diversion, but it’s the best she can manage. He humors her with a half-chuckle and a kiss pressed to the forehead.

“It’s not something you could have stopped,” he says after a few minutes. “This wasn’t failed negotiations or missed warning signs. You did what you could have done and you’re doing what you can. Last time I looked, you’re only human.”  
  
She grumbles.

“Hey,” he starts, his voice lighter. “If anyone can figure out omnipotence, it’s you. You’ve just gotta be one of us peons for now.”  
  
“Aliens invaded and all I got was this crappy sense of guilt. Someone should put that on a tee shirt.”  
  
“Think you’ll have to print more than one.”

——

While she may have her concerns about premature celebration, the crew certainly does not. The party is in full swing and the alcohol flowing freely almost as soon as they’ve set down outside the Skirmisher camp.

A small sober bunch remains on the bridge, monitoring the scanners. She can’t shake the feeling that retribution will be both brutal and swift.

A mug of something hot appears next to her, steam rising up into the air.

“Anything?” Central asks.

She shakes her head. “Our radar’s clear and we’re not picking up any distress signals. It doesn’t mean anything, though. ADVENT’s more than capable of jamming communication lines.”

“…I’ll pay you not to lead with that when we meet with Betos and her people tomorrow.”

She snorts and finally takes her attention from the console “Don’t worry; I’ll take a cheerier bent with our friends. Besides, I’m guessing they’ll have similar concerns.”

He settles next to her.

“How’s downstairs?”  
  
He takes a sip from his own steaming mug. “Thomas is still complaining you put him through decon.”

“He’s still sober?”

“He doesn’t have to be to keep complaining. Booze has always been a piss poor pacifier where Vincent Thomas is concerned.”

She groans. “He didn’t leave me much of a choice after his little party. We still don’t know if the Chosen are carriers of anything nasty, and we don’t need to risk an extraterrestrial blood-borne illness. Just because it doesn’t affect them doesn’t mean it wouldn’t affect us.”

“You’ll get no complaint from me.”

She sighs and settles deeper into her seat, reaching for the coffee. “The last thing we need is one of their diseases running wild through the crew.”

“I think they’ve all caught wise. Or warned the new recruits. His well’s all dried up.”  
  
He pauses for a beat.  
  
“Wait, no, not like … not like that,” he insists, his own face mirroring her creeping disgust.

She barely manages to swallow her drink before laughter overtakes her.

“Central,” she finally manages. “Please, I am begging you: never make me think of Thomas and his _well_ ever again.”

“Only if you wipe it from my memory, too.”

“Ugh,” she intones, squeezing her eyes shut. “Think we’re both out of luck, then.”

“…This is probably a bad time to tell you he’s on comms duty for your bridge shift tomorrow morning.”

She cracks one eye open. “Have I somehow displeased you? Offended your most ancient and noble house? Because, god, please let me make restitution. _Mea culpa, mea culpa_.”

“I’m sure Kansas will forgive you.”

“And your mother?”  
  
“Would have my head for leaving you to him.”  
  
“Quick — let’s get her on the comms.”

“Oh, the betrayal,” he jokes.

For a moment, there is a flicker of horror in the man’s eyes as he realizes what he’s said.

The word does not sting. There is no barb concealed in it, no ounce of sincerity. It’s a joke, simple and off the cuff, and she is shocked to find herself able to feign offense, a hand dramatically thrown against her forehead. “I am _wounded_ , John Bradford. _Wounded_.”

And just like that, it’s replaced with the glint of amusement. He’s laughing, the tension gone. For all they have been through, they are still here.

\--

 _Something is wrong_ , says the nagging voice at the back of her mind. _Something is very wrong_.

She gets up and brushes her teeth and makes the bed, paying the cloying sensation no mind.

Anxiety has long lurked as her shadow, a sense of impending doom popping up to slap her in the face with reminders of inescapable mortality. The Invasion, unsurprisingly, had not helped.

When she was younger, it was the kind of thing that made her dread having to catch a long-haul flight. _What if, just this once, it wasn’t her own irrational panic? What if it was some portent of the demise of all those she loved, encased in a wreck at the bottom of the ocean?_

The Invasion had left that fear sharper, yes, but it had also disabused her of any real belief in omens and portents. She’d had no pit in her stomach when she’d got to be the night of February 28, 2015; she’d not woken up with the pressing sense of the world about to collapse in on her head the day the base was attacked.

If the war against the Ethereals and their forces had taught her anything —and she’d like to think she’d learned much over the course of those months—it’s that, sometimes, it’s best to ignore her gut altogether and just work from the evidence at hand.

There are problems, yes. Vahlen’s latest report suggested that not only were the nanites capable of manipulating human tissue, but certain kinds of plant tissue as well. It’s a disturbing development, particularly for matters of crop security, but the fact remains that, as of this point, there is no reason to believe harm is yet imminent.

 _Unless the Pods emit another energy spike_ , her anxiety offers.

Even then, she counters, evidence to suggest is hardly the same as confirmed observation. There is a difference between ‘may’ and ‘will’ and its one to which she resolutely clings.

So, she goes about her day. She drinks coffee and has breakfast and sits in Mission Control, drafting a report. The energy spikes come as they always do and she issues the same old warnings to the personnel on duty about not letting Central catch them playing Civilization or any other game for that matter.

She circles the same routine day after day and tells herself it’s just the same old black-eyed dog, insistent and persistent as ever.

Eventually, it begins to grate on her.

She chalks it up to life underground in a concrete bunker — no matter how nicely it’s furnished, the confined space and lack of sunlight are a perfect recipe for mental hell.

She takes to sneaking topside for a few minutes when she can. It’s never enough, but it eases the worst of it. If she could just get out for longer periods of time, she tries to believe, it would clear up entirely.

Shen’s message comes unexpectedly one afternoon, shaking her back to life.

‘ _Possible Pod solution identified. Preliminary tests encouraging.’_

She doesn’t hesitate on her way to his workshop.  


End file.
